Graveyards full of conversations.
Remember seeking Paris on fifty a day?
Remember those great expectations?
Travelling, travelling, I don’t remember much
Before the stations blurred out of view,
Fields filling up with sun-dipped mornings,
New mown hours full of daffodils (and you).
Where is the river that used to run?
Where are the Cedars and Pines?
We’re off to the meadow to play with the sun,
Leaving only our shadows behind.
|Brooklyn Botanical Gardens Desert|