Sometimes I can't find the solace I require in my loneliness.
Other times I can.
I can rejoice in my presence, and
be grateful to be alive.
But now...
All there is now is a singular floating leaf
that is blown away from the pile before it can
land.
So Spring comes and the grass grows,
and I am still alone.
I search within myself for some seed,
some growth,
that proves that the soil is not spent,
and that my joy does not always require
recompent,
in vain.
And in vein these rivers and Spring wet-weather
branches flow,
for it rains and rains,
but nothing may grow.
But alone.
And as the limestone gives way to
ash, and roots that enclose to form
a ring,
we lose ourselves but for a moment,
but what could also be a hundred hundred years
that many many tears will allow me to
live
encircling an eternal hell
that may yet be
heaven.
I find the ways to say
as surely as the trees find a way
to reach toward the sun,
that the sun may give such life,
may turn the Winter to Spring to
Summer to fall as I do,
in love with you,
but will blind and burn
as surely as
you,
and will set and night will come
where I will howl and cry and sigh
at the moon,
alone,
without you.
And the stars shine bright as a reminder
that there are a hundred million hundred suns
like you,
but also that my sun has departed and
the hundred million hundred other suns
could burn a hundred million hundred years and not be
like you.
As surely as I search and the night grows long
with the shadows on the inside, and
all I find are the writings on
the chalk-hide to symbolize the turnings of years,
you rise,
with a greeting and a smile,
welcome,
my solace.