As a child I saw through the glass clearly
With the characteristic greed of dawn
I drank from every spring. But it's not greed
It's the enchantment of youth, open and
Constantly roving, like the restless sea.

Sons of craftsmen stemmed toward the light,
And even without faith, I could relish
The slow comforts of belief. I cherished
Those now gentle customs, declawed by time.
The cold stone floor, where I had stood and sang,
Grew mossy over me, beside the light
Of quiet outbursts from dancing candles.

Next to me, you were, and you were not there
Through divorce we come to live in two worlds
But complacency settles, steadily
Like the first snow of winter, those slow shifts,
Deliberately drift into mountains.

Calcified in time, dead mounds listen
As night talks to itself in tongues
And I can no longer grasp its language.
The boy that I was, has fallen from the sun
Yet we still live, abstracted, with burned wings
Pointing upward, misplaced amongst ruins.