What Was Never Joined

— Nathanial Crowe
1787

The century closes its hand.
I do not resist it.

The sky keeps its order.
Stars turn
as they have always turned.
I follow.

I ride alone.

The horse is black,
not merely in color,
but in disposition.

Leather takes the knee’s heat.
My boots know the road
better than any room
that has held me.

Cold water.
Iron grit.
Ground that does not pretend.

Air passes.
Breath enters.
The body replies.

You once stood
in the doorway,
flour at your wrist,
light falling so I could not read
your face,
only your outline
held against the house’s dark.

Your eyes kept their seasons.
I left as weather leaves.

I stood.
Time moved.

Fear did not turn me.
I went on.

Still, you remained
where I could not reach.

Rain fell.
Distance held.

To endure
is a quiet accounting
kept by the one who stays.

Hoofprints persist.
So does spring.

The animal moves
as darkness does,
rising, settling,
chimney smoke at dusk.

Once,
the horse faltered.
Not from the road.
From nothing I could name.

I let him stand.
My hand tightened
before I told it not to.

Buttons cut from coin
work loose with the miles.
I collect what drops.
They keep me awake
to the cost of going.

There are affections
not exhausted,
only borne
without sound.

Leather carries
distance,
ember,
and the trace of discipline.

I ride because staying
would have harmed
what leaving preserves.

I tend the horse.
He answers the hand.
I answer the road.

A man may rule much.
A strap loosens again.
I draw it tight.
The horse stamps once.
That is enough.

At dusk I oil the tack.
Cracks hold
when attended.

So we continue,
without indulgence.

Desire presses.
Love sets the limit.

Time is not kept by the sun
but by the shadow
your name casts.

Wind passes through your hair,
present,
then no longer mine.

Some names
belong to their silence.
To speak them
disturbs
what has been kept intact.

I loved you
enough
to ask nothing.

What is not taken
is not lost.
It remains
in its proper weight.

I remember your hand
on the gate latch,
hesitating,
then turning back
toward the house.

The latch cooled in the pause.

We did not speak.

Nothing was required
and nothing has been added
since.

Silence,
kept faithfully,
can outweigh
many words.

Do not mistake longing
for intention.
I remain where I was placed,
holding what passed
without display.

If years are counted,
let this stand:

What was never joined
was never undone.