On winter’s eastern seaboard haunts
Spirits bled from the seams of the heart
Beneath the torpor of a glaucous sky
We soak and settle in sobering eyes.
One writes, one waits,
Both writhe through relentless change
One cannot forsake his youth
The other grays with ageless truth.
We cook and then in hunger wait,
Our efforts, garnish for an empty plate
we walk toward the east, yet speak of the west,
The host is served by the love of the guest.
The shrill laughter of our children drifts
into the rafters of nostalgic mist
Up there, undreamt dreams collect in clouds,
Hidden behind pale pleats of a vaporous shroud
The roots of hope weep for everyone
While its flowers burn off into a merciful sun
Visages of former lovers float
Landing as raindrops onto overcoats,
Let her evaporate, brush him away,
You may remain, but they can’t stay
There’s no way back to memories
Those leaves long fallen from the trees
In the palette of illusion, your canvas drowns
It is the quiet reed that makes a sound.
God’s faithful canine springs forth upon command
“Flush ’em out boy! Send what flew fleeing from the sand.”
