Forgetful of all measures
It is that time of year again,
it’s spring again
and songs come out to sing again
of life and love:
all things to do with hope again,
while on the ground
the branch that did escape
the wind and rain
of last November
to hide beneath the white
and soothing snow,
lies naked now,
lies dead and bare
before this new assault
on our awakening senses.
I look for footprints
where we did not walk
and measure time,
not by a change of heart,
a change of season - no,
I take the minutes of the heart,
the eye, the hunger that forgets
we do our aging mostly
in these whispered halls,
where we have hung our thoughts,
and hung our deeds and dreaming
in half-shrouded, almost lifelike mirrors,
where we pray, for want of more.
I come here, like I come to you,
forgetful of all measures.