Martin Robertson

Now and Then

Leap Year

No last year’s letter, nor

one from the year before.

The last time this intercalary date

joggled the calendar

Cecil was still here,

breathing the air,

looking across the light,

planning, doing, aware.

But after that

for less than half a year.

Such loss.  A life that might

have filled so many four-year cycles more.

And on that twenty-ninth of February


you, I suppose, and I the whole day through

probably never thought

once one of the other.  But if we did

the thought will have been good.

I know, if ever

your image came to mind it brought

a warmth of innocent pleasure,

as mine surely to you.

And that’s a sweet thing to have knowledge of

looking back from our love.