Allusive Afterglow

I squint through half-closed eyes

But I cannot retrieve

That Thing that once I loosely prized

and thought would never leave

I inhale; ah, where is

That Thing that I let slip?

And like the Want of almost-kissed

It burns upon my lip

I reach but all I touch

Is ever present Now

The rib cage holds the thund’ring rush

Of That Thing's afterglow

I taste the salt of years

Austere, its season weaves

That Thing that once I blithely cheered

And thought would never leave

© Janet Martin