Letter To An Old Lover

What kind of quarrel would go on so long?
Even the wind wears itself out, howling.
Squirrels stop chasing through coast oaks,

the new kid next door abandons loud music.
In the bay, waves that started where the eye
can't see crash onto the well-crushed shore,

and the sunflowers, that stood like old women
in the garden, their hair askew, backs bent,
topple, and lie across the peppers with a sigh.

So why could we not be more like the world
we are made of, why could we not come
to the point of surrender, and begin again?

Copyright © 2005 Lynne Knight All rights reserved
from Carquinez Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission