Of myself I write
What else do I know
less and less the further I do go
falling fast away--the past
and fading round on round
save memory of love and loss abound
The dances of my spirit life
in soul light sublime
merge here in this simple rhyme
Devoid of weighty verse
writ to exalted height
no alchemy of words can shed a light
Not in paper
will the gold of life be bound
but in heart’s penetralium can be found
and
in thoughts and words and deeds
passed on to friend along the way
as well as foe, I pray
So here, these simple lines
are witness (and a prayer)
that what I’ve wrought and written
(not for fame) is made of air
When I lie beneath a sycamore--
its tortuous branches--beauteous
luminous and bare
against the sky
will speak for me
the “why”
