what happens if it passes,
and the day tomorrow leaves behind
is chilled and withed,
holding us without a chance,
at the drop off point where death takes over,
how can we hold the weary fort,
when battle scars the very heart of the earth.
How can we love without knowing,
how can we hold on without a knotted center
keeping us from flying off,
how can I watch the day die
and still live to see the morning
sneaking back to life against the sallow sky?
I did, and then I turned around
and just walked out of the picture.
What could I do?
I didn't know how to talk it over.
|Magnolia Buds in December, Central Park|