Clouds coat the sky like the warmth of dreams

                As I stand before the stump of a maple tree

                And I pray that, by some grace, time will stand still

                I’ll hold hands with the breeze and I’ll drink my fill

                Of liquid mirrors, of fallen leaves

                Of snowbanks pierced with reeds and streaked with blood

                And, there, I will hide from the sharp eyes of the stars -

                Their cold light, their stern glow, that merciless judge.

 

                Still, the cosmos and all it contains

                Runs wild and frantic inside my veins

                Those swirls and clouds show through my skin

                Spread too thinly to hide the storm within

                And the voice of every god and guru to which man has bowed

                Has echoed in my ears for so long, and so damnably loud

                That I have forgotten the sound of my own.

 

                Now, if I were to hear its tense timbre on the breeze

                And, like a hunter, tracked it to its source -

                What if I listened, with my mind, for once, at ease,

                And it led me onto a derelict course?

 

                I’d shoot the angels from the sky, they’d curl up in feather beds

                That would grow more opulent with every tear they shed

                And I’d wander and ponder, electrified

                By my desperate, irrational will to survive.

 

                Everywhere I’ve gone, every last soul knew

                How my tree once grew tall, but with branches askew.