A Last Poem
I walk in a gray March rain
On a path hung with forsythia past their bloom
My heart crumples like
Last year’s leaves Not
Because you will not be there
But because
I cannot care if you were
The sky widens in wet blindness
I mourn the very loss of pain
There’ll be snow, they say,
Towards morning.
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by Catrin Lewis, 30 March 1985, all rights reserved
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