there is nothing romantic
about death about pain
tears falling like soft clouds
like copper clouds the color of rusted blood
the texture of fire
the first enemy is fear
the second power
the third old age
all my life all those books all those feelings
words thoughts experiences
to say such simple words to feel
such simple things
your mountains like my own like home
rows of dust of light brown soil
as if a gentle wind could level them
could blow them away
the sea touching my nostrils
filling them a country of smell
of sound of wine flowers of salt air
of early morning opening and
opening through my mind
my heart the extremities
of my hands my feet
if I were a bird and could float
dipping and weaving tapestries of air
and light if we could fly together
like silver crows birds of dream
until everything stops is silent and
gentle like your songs your voice
but the world allows us nothing
the world is nerves is fiber
dust and sand the world changes constantly
nothing remains the same
I see you singing into the air
as if your voice could fly be free
were there creatures above you
listening fishing your gifts
from the breeze was there a place
that could hold you as you opened yourself
to it as you went where no one else
could follow where no one else
could see
each time I have loved
I have left part of myself behind
until now 1 am mostly memory
mostly dream what I have left
I give to you my last love
my last song
the total of all
I have ever felt or known
we grow smaller as we grow
as things empty themselves of us
and we of them
it is so deep this thing between us
no name can contain it
even time trembles
at its touch
Susan Sherman