He had lost the harmony; she the tune.
The chorus did not clamor to save the piece,
ceased singing, and let it recede
a tenfold fathom below.
No melody to reach, though reach he did;
his hand could scoop only a cacophony.
He did not see her slip the line from
the stanchion of his soul.
Perhaps she loosed it in the shade, or likely darkness;
unmooring when she stayed West; smiling
as he departed to serve the city; him believing
their later reunion was thankful, if not tender.
But the notes that join and then embrace,
to receive a common trust,
had lost their clasp and thus:
the weave had come undone from the frame.
It was simple.
She was gone, but still living.
He took shelter in the recesses of his heart,
playing, again, the record of their inscribed music
– a platter now bereft of luster –
listening as the ebbing waves bore away
a life, once possible,
Rich Aubin had no idea that he was a repressed poet until a friend pointed it out to him, encouraging him to write and submit to The Common Language Project. Rich’s appreciation for poetry and his writing is inspired by the friendship and tutelage of the late poet laureate of Maryland, Roland Flint. Rich and his four daughters live in Garland where he practices law and serves on the City Council (having learned he was a repressed politician two years ago!).