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Eclipse of the Moon

I exiled them to the forest
that they might not wake us at dawn.
All winter I sat drawing their moods
but in the spring we parted.
Now trees are strong or bold or soft
but I am broken-hearted.
Yet still they come to me with lines
left over from our fling;
drink to the trees, my silent friends,
when you wake in the Spring.
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Breaking Up
I am becoming enamored of prose.
I have turned my chair away from the window
to concentrate on objects that last.
My tables are set for conversation.
I brush aside the morning light like cobwebs.
The jay and the crow scratch air with their cries.
We will not sing. There must be some linear
relation
of last night's dream to the whole.
There must be some extended highway of pulse,
some lateral road I walk, or am carried on.
I am falling in love with time.
I would lean on its arm as on an archetype.
I would write it letters about its heart.
But I am afraid of love.
(Return to Contents)
Grief
I tried to write about it once before,
torpedo tuber of a frozen leave,
grey ice of grief,
and much, much more.
But then it seemed a stranger at the door,
a holder of all fleshly old belief,
a childhood's fief,
time's paramour.
How could so hulking and so hale a thing
or so I thought, bring me a sudden sinking
like a flame thinking?
It could not sing.
It seemed the most the brilliant dark could bring
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