A Souvenir

Bring what you have
to the edge of our bed;
your hands filled with stones
and shells- a souvenir.

I have no place
in the natural world,
the world you struggle to
design. See, there are no roots

to grasp the soil, no vertical
rows of blooming vine. Perhaps
I am the fallow field, quiet, cold
and empty. And of my soul, memento

of the passing years, what glory
will it grow, when it is worked
and tilled and planted?

1 comment:

Nobius said...

Wow. I'm breathless again, you are certainly one of the best writers of our generation.