Raking through the remains of mushrooms, their quiet cities dissolved of themselves,
By tine-stroke their gray-purple thoughts entering the atmosphere in clouds,
Scattering their soft lumps and particles, promoting their culture and furthering their aims,
I am the ghost of the day; see me through your window in the soft yellow light of late afternoon;
Tap on the glass and I will look your way — yes, like that — and as long as I can, I will stay.
November 8, 2019
Before she disappears
behind an icy wall,
one last smile.
I hurry out
to say farewell,
find empty shoes
and faded dress,
She is gone,
but I hear her laughing.
Songs and Letters, November 30, 2006
Winter Poems, Cosmopsis Books, 2007