whether in winter or fall,
somewhere or nowhere,
none of this matters
if we don't make it matter.
someone may have once
said that to me on a stone porch,
under clouds that didn't matter
at the time, but they do now.
a day is only a day when seen,
through waking eyes, shining,
and time has passed with a rhythm
of a thousand thunderstorms.
just as she was fading
in the rearviewmirror,
I write this letter,
knowing a feeling from long ago.
my words don't matter
as napkins,
but they are forever more
than spring and summer.