And so it turns from sweet to sour
And - worse than this -
No taste at all as dry grass trodden
Brown and flat inconsequential, blown
And underfoot
As our paces walk away from each
Until the sound is gone.

Now - saved by patterns rhythms lines
And forms of seeing that can find a path
To that surprising place of rightness in
Sudden sight of you again
Across the crowded years

Where all the lost unspoken words
Can sound anew.