Nobody talks
of love
thrown into a gutter.*

There is no glory in leaves
rotted to mulch,
turned with dirt.
They drain
and clog.

One look begins our pain,
one sweep ends their suffering.

We attend
at all times
a need to strive
and tend our strife.
To clear the heap,
we burn,

return to ourselves in a corridor of light,
and make do with the bareness of our hands.

The mind follows,
the will carries.
We reach

and let go.
Our smoke
glides the current,

for dreams do not die,
only granted
to the passing-by.