* * *
What’s the hurry when there’s no waiting
when there’s nothing but separation
When the surf of the minutes is loud
When all the rustles and sounds
rise from the abyss of summer.
The sad judgement of memories,
the vagaries of autumn, oblivion,
cold shadows of strangers
that keep the heart at bay.
And the sky in its wisps of homeless clouds
is such a sadness,
and in the mirror of the vast soul
the sunset burns desperately.
In the suburb of sunlight,
to the chatter of the birds,
we return from summer
to our dull but familiar paradise.