Like an Inkling Lost

Something earlier than frost
and colder than frost’s chill
comes like an inkling,
lost in backward sight
and ill.
Memory that’s yet to come
creaks floorboards of the past
from long ago until the end of last.
Lanterns I have never lit
glow anticipant of light;
darkly pulsing there they sit,
themselves in darkness out of sight.
So come in light that is not burning –
dark tiptoe of a darker cat.
I dread you at each corner’s turning;
I long for you when time is flat.
Where does our buried treasure lie?
Where went the tears I could not weep?
When did I say my first goodbye?
What promise could I never keep?