The Year of Love

THE YEAR OF LOVE
by Donald G. Redman

It was supposed to be the Year of Love.

The year was but a newborn baby

When we reached out for each other’s hands,

Entwined our fingers and prayed for love.

The Year of Love lasted just eight days.

Then the recriminations began

And anger fell like an avalanche,

Burying us in frosty silence.

My only comfort a threadbare quilt

Of loneliness and isolation.

This year was supposed to be different.

Alone in my icy, little room

Carved from a glacier of solitude,

 I imagine writing love sonnets,

But my Muse has abandoned me for

A sunnier, warmer environ.

Crumpled love letters like balled little fists

Litter the floor near the trash basket.

I think I will try again – later.

In the meanwhile, I await the thaw

And cross out days in the Year of Love.

Copyright 2017 Donald G. Redman