a summer wind
and softly, now, the whisper of fall
and these shadows, like snakes
they creep down my wall
and the sun, swiftly
his chariot borne through the sky
down, reaching, long fiery fingers
and i don’t want to die
in this desert of dreams
of thoughts and sorrow
for what i held yesterday
was mine, only to borrow
and i cry out for you
but i cry out in vain
for the thunder has passed
leaving only the rain
and here i am, to wander
through this cage of desire
with a lock that’s grown rusty
and a smoldering fire
and as once we spoke freely
and now can speak no more
and of all that we did say
what hasn’t been said before
and the time that we shared
and these words are just sand
worn by the waves
of what we don’t understand
and yet other things, tooÂ
i keep, still in this heartÂ
as i watch these forms,Â
cast by twilight, soon to depart
Greg Alston is a gardener, cook, father and some other things, too.
