Something that cannot be remembered
Writing for the universal other.  Everyman
Who knows my story is his own.  His story
Is my story.  Spring; Summer; Fall; Winter
When the glory is forgotten only the naked
Idea remains.  Bare branches reaching in to
The sky in dispair of its prayer being heard
Then a solemn quietness comes to the heart
Marking the passing-  Now it is Spring  for the
First time in all its glory the newness that could
Not be remembered but now is forever if it die.