what will you have me make
of us when the sun has long set
what kind of song
can we raise for the children
when they hold black-eyes
carried from a harvest of many tears
somewhere in the corner of my dreams
I have come to the crossroad
and without lingering a bit
I go without you
I have asked the plant-doctor
to stop crushing leaves and berries
to heal the thousand wounds
festering, whistling somewhere in the soul
for many seasons I’ve tread
through gravels with a dove's step
rising every dawn among twisted pine
on my bedroom wall your paintings
stall tall demons of despair
they stare at me and now I face the owl you hid
in the bouquet of wildflowers
this dawn, in the sitting room I read
about the windless threadwork of hatred
and the landscapes of tears
you left on the darkening window
when all stars melted away
