How shall I recall the Spring
When on one Winter’s day I bring
Not more than half of anything
When all the spittle that I write
Flys back upon my face in spite
Reminding me no words are right.
There’s no illusion!
It seems the old year has ended
And I’ve not my fences mended.
All my words have but offended
I hope one day I might afford
To call upon some risen Lord
That he might offer a reward
Untill that time I know I’ll find
That all my words, though they might rhyme
Cannot repay one lonesome dime
Here I’ll pause, though ending be
As always was, a mystery.
Nothing lingers here for me
But more questions.
17 December 2004
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