Of Faith

A hand, now
bare in the winter and
the cold is touching

white rose pedals warming the red bricks wet and
near my feet –

lost, what is meant to –

never was it meant to.

Love.

Forgetting, the flowers of a wedding and
surely, will hands that held, but
what was picked up –

never.

The beholden.

The steps of a Greek church paused me
pedals and stopping
I picked one. And this,
this was a house I had never visited,
but for walking by, but never

are we just walking by.