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CIX. The rain falls softly,
Unspoken sorrow waters
The coming year's plants.
CX. Rain in January
Paints a picture of autumn,
Not winter, nor spring.
CXI. The bleak midwinter
Melts the dried tubers which lack
Rosetti's snow sheet.
CVI. For a MacLeish poem
Concerning grief history:
Ah, the maple leaf!
CVII. The still empty box,
The note stored in the drawer,
The roaring silence.
CVIII. For the leaf fallen,
Sits still upon the porch step —
The kind bench, empty.
CIII. Drip. Trickle. Drip. Trickle. Drip.
Snow melts away the dirty —
A clean slate for spring.
CIV. Poor snow, once newfall'n!
A blanket of light now dims,
Curtain call finished.
CV. Each year, its job starts
At crisp Autumnal endings,
But fades 'fore spring's near.
C. The cat sleeps soundly.
My lap is his bed tonight.
My legs sleep under.
CI. Tomorrow's journey,
Takes me down old, well known roads,
For unknown stops.
CII. The crickets chirp now,
A last song before frost gives
A cold curtain call.
XCVII. How I wish time might
Flow back that too soon spent time
Could relive the day.
XCVIII. Softly, I watch it,
Soft focus, unfolding, yet
Still left too folded.
XCVIX. Indian summer —
The weary flowers' last dance
Before frost's sharp blade.
XCVI. Sometimes the silence
Is less fearful than the sound.
Yet it is not kept.
XCVII. The end of a thing —
Unexpected expected —
Reassesses all.
XCVIII. What of different
Views of the same time and place?
Oh, that they would match!
XCIII. Funny how things can
Happen when you least expect.
Listen as they occur.
XCIV. The rain flows about,
Washing away dry old thoughts,
Inviting new paths.
XCV. Time now past by us,
Invites us to see present.
Let's go forth, forward.
XC. Soft wind of mem'ry
Blows by, though the other may
Forget what remains.
XCI. Ah! For the happy
Twist of plot to be placed by
The playwright's kind hand.
XCII. But to hope for what
Is but memory, not twist…
Such hope is tragic.
LXXXVII. Time is dripping slow,
Stalactite of memory,
Not there, but past then.
LXXXVIII. Memories of joy
Build upon the memories
Of sorrows now past.
LXXXIX. The past is the block,
Which with desire mortared,
Builds story and song.
Like a dream you came to me,
And trod along the gentle path,
Like a dream you spoke again,
Said what I had once hoped to hear.
A million sighs like filled balloons
Flew pleasantly southwest and high,
Blown fast by kind old Zephyr's touch.
The old familiar visitant,
The ache that's spanned the years and years,
No longer welcomed, nor its lack
Did sting as we today ambled.
The birds gathered and sang just like
A merry band of strolling lutes,
But not outshown by the kindly Sun,
Who poured and splashed his golden rain
Upon your hair (each strand repaid).
But your smile accrued double.
So why am I again attended by
The milky form as though conjured?
Well paid, I do not owe again!
Your golden glow will pay suffice!
Why then do I again feel poor?
Surely, though it was like a dream…
But, oh! There was no like — only a dream.
