Crossin’ Over

Won’t sing

of romances,

kisses or

slow dances.

That time is done.

We’re down to one—

or another.

(Without lovers.)

Death tip-toes

along the cliff,

whispering,

“What if … what if.”

“Not now,”

I say—

with my hair gone grey.

“Not now.”

& my last trek

is to her grave—

where I sigh:

“Soon, my love. Soon.”