Sunday, March 30, 2014

A Poem, Just to Vary Things a Little

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.

by Catrin Lewis, 30 March 1985, all rights reserved

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