When the bridge is gone, the narrowest plank becomes precious.
—Hungarian Proverb
The bridge is gone, after all,
dismantled and then burned,
out of spite or for warmth,
I could not tell. Perhaps both.
I suppose that eventually
the termites would have gotten it.
Nothing lasts forever. I know that.
But I wish you had left
something more than a pile
of ash, some other way I might
cross over and meet you today.
As it is, the ravine is too deep
and steep to cross without a bridge,
and the ridge goes on in both directions
as far as I have ever walked.
Sometimes I imagine wings, but
we both know that is just imagining.
Perhaps if I look hard enough
around the site where we
constructed the bridge long ago,
I could find just one narrow plank.
Sometimes I forget the metaphors.
I practice just picking up the phone,
dialing your number, saying Hello.
But then I remember the curling smoke.
And I put down my ideas
and tell myself it’s better this way,
though already I have forgotten why.
