i won the war.

i walked outside
and smelled something familiar.
it was the same mixture in the air
of earth and water and warmth
as on the night you told me you were coming.

i used to walk up and down the hudson,
looking at her liberty,
waving a light along side of her,
just to let you know you were almost there,
in case you were growing tired.
i used to call out on the docks,
on nights like these,
when you told me you were coming,
"i am waiting for you,
i will never tire of waiting."

you never came.
the voyage was rough
and treacherous.
the seas weren't calm,
they did not part for you,
or carve a path for you in their crests.
they put up blockades and told you that
even if you won this battle,
you would still loose the war.

not one aquatinted with loosing,
you about-faced.
the sea welcomed you back
into familiar navigation.
you no longer had use for bravery
or even a compass,
but you were proud.
your final letter was full of your pride.

falling out of love was more wretched
than falling in.
consistent with gravity,
i fought a loosing battle,
climbed myself out of the hole,
resisted against the pulling force.
it was wretched to upheave my heart from
the soil;
my roots had grown deep.

i walked outside
and smelled something familiar.
it was the same mixture in the air
of earth and water and warmth,
the secret smell of daffodils announcing
that they are just beneath the surface.
they are ready to chime their bells.

and i stood to greet them.
scarred and wounded,
having won the war.