I yield the balance of my page
I sigh in measured time,
bemuse myself with rhyme.
Of pain, I make a parlor play;
with words I while an hour away.
Leave me to my cliches.
They comfort me these days.
To shocking shards and blocks of rage,
I yield the balance of my page.
How selflessly and skillfully the sun
who sang bright hours to rivers, glades, and towns
takes his appointed leave as, one by one,
the choristers of evening don their splendid silver gowns.
How suddenly the leaves to brown are turned.
Fair summer heaves, demurs, no longer cares.
Once more, her promises are raked and burned–
the quick and cunning frost again has caught her unawares.
How simply is the gathering of friends
dissolved, as each must hurry home alone.
With one last glass, a lingering laugh, it ends.
The well-worn chairs are left to feign a friendship of their own.
Mechanically, he turned and stepped away.
Though there remained a symphony to say,
the audience was obviously tired.
The orchestra was weak and uninspired.
And so he wandered up the streets, and down,
through all the dry vernacular of town.
A thousand trivialities he passed,
until the sidewalk brought him home at last.
He summited the dim and creaking stair.
He sank into the thrift store easy chair,
closed his eyes, and waited for her face.
She smiled at him. Then darkness took her place.
I wished for meadows gold and green
I wished for meadows gold and green,
for forests rich and sweet,
as autumn’s chill crept up between
the boards beneath my feet.
It seemed to me within your eyes
there welled a wish like mine–
as if they gray November skies
could cry a draught of wine.