No Tokens
June 22, 2025
Photo © copyright by Nathan Larson.
No Tokens
A sycamore
drops every leaf by December,
a naked witness against the cold,
surrendering to the eventual.
We lingered in a final embrace,
he slipped something into my coat pocket,
too fragile for words,
meant to be found later,
when isolation grew heavy.
My body felt the heft of sorrow
settling against the seam.
Before the doors closed,
it was back in his warm palm.
I will see you again.
Not a wish,
a rooted certainty.
His eyes flickered,
wounded.
We are in midwinter now,
season of a particular absence.
The sycamore does not clutch its leaves,
or hoard against the barren months.
It knows spring will remember,
to make things whole.
I will not embrace you in fragments.
-nl
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