The years find a third way through,
And when you say years, mean hours,
Mean life. Nights are gall bones built
From days that dreams built from bones.
The lost are like this. The found
Are worse. Seas of leaves that burst
At dawn, the birds that sing wants
For what kills all to make more.
You know the ways. Your own heart
Thirsts. Spring comes for all. No worst.
Sunday, February 28, 2021
Cliffs of Spring
