Sarah Is Walking Home.

Sarah is walking home from the deli,
and cradles a tuna fish sandwich.
It is autumn. The rays of sunlight has
fallen, quick, over the mountains;
my neighbor got a goat and names him Will.

Sarah is walking home, and spies a lonely kitten,
drinking from a canister of milk someone
left on their porch.

The wind sighs lonely and sad. Darkness falls
in every street corner. Fireflies come out,
one by one, and greet the darkness of the sky.
Sarah is walking home, she holds the sandwich
as if it is her last link to earth.
No one will befriend her, now.

Not even the old man
who brings her the mail, a sad, sorrowful face of
forgetfulness, a man with Alzheimer's.

She knows people are like chess pieces. She knows
people don't know about sunlight,
or how to buy new cars.

A man drives a hole in the world.

Why the small bird's grief is form'd of Dreams.

To his cold beauties on a summer morn,
love will smile its translucent smile,
with a rosy bosom, and eyes forlorn,
and all will be well in a little while.
To myself the Sun will keep my heart.
Oh cold Sun! I sing happy cheer!
When beloved’s song piped: he then came quite near,
then vanished, as soldiers were honored with
their wings of light.
Rose's thickest time of runes have opened
and there beheld a silver door;
then we saw, it 'twas the night,
and many white thorns thrust upon a dark shore.
My love, he laughing said,
"I've a sigh, 'tis reaches farther
than the light of woe!"
"Renew thy strength," I then replied,
"take your delight in the snow!"
But I could not be dark as the night,
for morn blushed rosy as clay,
and the dread hand of darkness faded from sight,
and the Sun, a lonely fen, was mine today.

(An older poem, written when I was 19, 20ish.)