It was global warming broke my heart.
I'd known her years ago, just friends,
Our separate lives like latitudes - mathematic parallels.

Last Earth Day, evening coming down,
It took a sinking sun, a nascent blackening hole,
To warp the time continuum and bring our lines together.

After days and nights enough to melt a NorthWest Passage.
Our post-coital ruminations illuminating darker sides,
She said, "You drive an SUV. I love my bike, I'm out of here."

Donovan White made a living as a carpenter while enrolled in a Creative Writing program and wrote short fiction nights and weekends. Then he worked as an editor and wrote nothing but headlines and captions. Now he manages software development and writes poetry nights and weekends and on breaks in his workday commute. He lives in a formerly small house in the New England woods. The house is twice as big as it started out; so is he, for that matter. Whenever he starts feeling mature, or smart, or sophisticated, sooner or later he remembers that he's had only a few great loves in his life, and three of them were dogs.