Raucous birds in scattered black alarm,
slowly returning shadows, among
the hopes of silent trees, full of long
ago, waiting, listening.
There, before it turned into itself,
I was dumbfounded, flightless, worm-blind,
and of moist-earth dreams, but of this mind -
an empty wind whispering
there, across the open grasslands, where
everything is long gone and blowing
when everyone is dust, unknowing,
but nothing is forgotten.
Here curls upon your neck, here tender
in play, sweet glances, unspoken pain.
A child's vulnerability is lain
deep in caverns of courage
and I can make nothing of it. Yet,
whenever falls a leaf or feather
or, beyond time, we see each other,
each moment holds all the riches
there are. And so we are suspended,
tangled up in threads of knotted thought,
by tenderness connected and caught,
above the sheer drop of emptiness.
