“How should I skip the sea
if the water weathers me?”
You asked before some summer storm
on solid sheets of form.
I recall such silly things,
like the fragrance of your dreams,
the sounds, as showers washed, you made,
your clothing, far too hip to fade.
To the past, I will go,
this burning bit by snow.
To the past, I will sing,
my source of everything.
You should skip the sea with stone
after all your birds have flown,
ripples that wax and wane,
before future falls of rain.
No comments:
Post a Comment