Literature
Barely
Each step of mine is a step to the wind.
A step of memories all heaped and piled,
of torments hardened in the cement, pinned.
I turn them, turn them, in lament held fast,
Where I have sealed them and consumed them whole,
Where I weep for every moment of the past
Of life I've lived since the beginning's toll.
Stretched in their footsteps, I advance and yield
Until I reach the township of their soul.
And then I see, and then I dream and see.
The stars are croaking, and the dew extends
into the purple of the dreaming night.
The dawn has stopped upon the unknown road,
behind my back the summer quarter bends
wide open: I turn the card, into flight
the need to run now melts and sheds its load.
Upon the wheel of straw the blackbird will
sing and upon the canal it will trail
the sunset's glide. It will rise and fulfill,
riding on rocks, will shine and it will sail
among the wheat ears and the window frames
of rooms so many childhood years away.
The laughter will make orchestras
