SONG OF THE STREET
Again under my window, a wandering singer
sings a sad song I’ve heard long ago;
sings as if I wrote that song for the singer;
sings as if I wept that song for the singer;
sings as if I walk down the street with yearning,
singing the song and only to you.
To forget, to forego, to forbid
every thought, every want, every need.
Not to love, nor look back, just to leave.
Not to feel, just to break with the past.
To forgive, to forget, and to leave.
All alone, not depressed and to see
what’s inert, what will hurt, what will not.
Not to wait, not to want, nor desire,
not to feel, not to burn, not to ask,
but acquiesce and accept and to pass.
A stirring chill, whirring still,
keeps me mollified
by empty trees, yellow leaves
that slow my stride.
Filling paths, failing greens
turn brown and pass
in shades that fade, fields unmade
All my fires are banked fires
down to a glow.
And stirring dreams, whirring dreams
flare and go.
YOU ARE THE SISTER OF MY SOUL
You are the sister of my soul.
You are Fortune’s smile,
good news of a new life,
and heaven’s balm.
And what, if anything,
am I to you?
You are the clean hope,
the light that ends the dark,
the song after tears,
my oasis, no, my world.
What if anything
am I to you?