Brooding

Brooding
               a villanelle for Heather, on our anniversary

Incomplete if not a pair,
we tramp together, sure and fumbling,
our children cleaving to our care.

Their cries and laughter rend despair
while our complaints go mumbling,
incomplete. If not a pair

of lovers buffeted through the air,
we cut a graceful flock: we’re stumbling.
Our children, cleaving to our care,

grow without warning—soon they’re not there;
our steps uncertain; we’re stumbling,
incomplete. If not a pair

of hearts will we fight the snare
of silence? Clinging to our mumbling,
our children, cleaving to our care,

we sacrifice our love affair
for simple love, pure and stumbling,
incomplete if not a pair,
our children cleaving to our care.