sorrow makes its way in
like an old friend bearing his treasured gifts
the photograph and letter
that you cannot bear to part with
he settles into your empty room
and sits with you in his silent way
while you grind your soul
slowly over the past and what you have lost there
he gently takes your hand and leads your heart
deeper into the rapture
of longing for what you cannot have
for that which is lost beyond redemption
she lay beneath headstone
in small Massachusetts town
fall leaves and now snow lay quiet blanket
on her resting soul
sadness bring you here in dream
from the miles where you lay
to stand unabashed weeping
in the cold dark of night
sorrow betrays you
but you cannot care
it consumes you
until you are blind to all else
until you are withered
lay down next to her and take your rest
none will blame
none see
but your old friend
sorrow

she wears a set of keys
on a chain round her neck
one for each of the nights alone
unlock my heart with these she whispers as if it were obvious
but then she casts her love letters into the river
saying that nobody ever understands her point of view
so we might as well all be blind
there are no real desperate words
on her tragically trembling lips
but what dose come out jiggles like a carnival crier
to the harmonica players thoughtful song
she used to sing it in the coffee shop she loved
back in one of her yesterdays
now her days are an egg shell blue patchwork of plaster fixes that
define the destitute box and its failings at life's tiresome money game
its trail of paperwork attempts to find a prophet
who could give us a defining moment and photo op for time magazines cover
somebody to tell us that we are on the wrong road
she spends her days taking care of me and
sweeping up the dusts
of all our yesterdays
and neatening up the lines of mason jars
filled with jams and jellies
the sunlight falling through them makes a rainbow she smiles to me
as she settles into a cup of coffee to stare wistfully off into the morning
i ask what's shes thinking but she never dose say
she just runs a thin hand through her auburn hair
and laughs that its snowing somewhere far away
that some field in a distant wood is peaceful and filled with the grace of innocence
that one finds in the stillness of fresh snowfall
that one finds in a newborn child
or a newborn day