The last verse of a poem becomes a mourning song
and the golden leaved trees in a forever
with precious strings,
so many small deaths.
The link of a friendship, once - a replaying
and our fingers untwine, release, simply to scale this instrument of passing.
In time becomes in tempo
as if overnight
and in place becomes a pulse; stretch of second chance -
a stanza translating back to ode, and if either
melody or epic might speak to you, I'd sing or
Your conscience is mine, slopping sloppy, blurred
This gift of imperfection detected through all the
words you can not say.
So, the mistakes we made
but now alone I'm finding rest
a gift I would compose
if only I
could find the form that in any hour past would lift.
The Sunday Whirl