Comes a time, south or north
to go with the river bends
its weighty head to drink late
thoughts in bloom of April trees
grow fine and shade forgotten
moments are the best and last
to fade in summer things unsaid
grow wings to burn a while
the wind blows out the sun
in autumn dies

Remembering is what's wrong,
always a melancholy song,
whether of sad or happy times,
they're all the same, when gone.

All love must end
Lovers are doomed
But don't unseal
this secret tomb
while wedding bells
are still in bloom
and we lie fast
in our small womb

A simple song
is always just right
to light a candle

till a window breaks
into paper birds
that eat out of your hand

Father what can he be
but a sailmaker
braving the winds
on the high seas
What can he be
but a glass blower
of birds on lighted wings
come home to sleep
Father a family ghost
knocking to get in
What can he be
but a face in the window
a hand on the door
a step melting the snow
under the trees

She never spoke
but sang to me
and blew into her hands.

Whatever she hid there
I never knew.
Cupped in the hollow
like a small flame kept alive.
Bent over it
to see heerself
mirrored in the dark.
It glowed like embers
through her fingers,
but I never knew  what it was.

A bird, I wondered,
or a winged bug,
and whether its shadowy light
meant it had flown away.

Until one day,
opening her fist, she showed me
a  burned-out cinder,
a tiny corpse of self.

I came to a place
Inever knew
But where not knowing
Was knowing true.

An unknown place
Where blind I stood
Yet all being strange
All things understood,
How I cannot say,
But where not knowing
Was knowing true.

A place of bliss
And perfect faith
And deepest knowledge
Of the narrow way,
So passing strange
No word can be true
To what I knew.

So bathed in light
And strange delight
I left my senses,
Flew from my life
As my spirit soared
In that knowing true
What no knowledge knew.