Been years since these late October winds
have blown through this melancholy heart.
The rattling noise comes, I guess, from a faulty framework.
Once said "What cannot bend in the wind, breaks."
That is what I hear, late at night, as I lay to sleep.
What was once sturdy stands unsure in these winds.
I am not frightened, that lies behind me,
I feel like I want to be cast up, outside,
let me go where I will. Roots mean little to me now,
how can I stand still any longer while the geese
follow the same road that I paid for with my love.
I hear your voice in this poem, a poem only you could write, and the tears that come are not sadness, but the amazement of sadness becoming Beauty by the power of art, a kind of beauty for ashes, joy exchanged for mourning.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful work, Mike.
Sherry