2010 March 8
I like it when everyone is happy
and the watermelons are in season.
Then I hear the rhythms begin to hum
within the landscape of my dreams, and I
see her weeding the garden, her dark hair
the same color as the forest of pines
I remember after a rain, the first
rays of light tender as a musical
score, weaving past the point where sense begins
to fail. The notes speak of Rilke, each one
a separate world that rotates alone:
you will write only one authentic line
for what is left of your life. Make it count.
Nothing I write here will keep her alive.