singing in the rain

this poem is from Oct. 92, a highly prolific time for me - often 3 or 4 poems a day, not that many survived editing. Ah, the good ole days!



WE SANG

we sang - in dark thickets - songs of our youth
under an unknowing sky
beneath dying mountains that didnt even know it
- songs of our youth:
full of bravado and dreams -
dreams as frail as morning frost on picket fences trying to stop the wind
dreams as far away as stars

we were alive, no skeletons in our closets to slow us down
no miracles seething in our pockets for explanations
we were the essence of wind:
over the rocks, or through them if necessary, caressing the mountain
even as it crumbled, brushing our hearts, but never really noticing
until later:
much later

we were eagles, or at least hawks
knowing the skies were merely avenues

& somewhere, i cannot be certain if it was a thursday morning
or tuesday night, the dreams turned into nightmares
& curses became reality - curses of forgetfulness:

the skies became miracles waiting discovery
& the mountain was no longer old
it was dead.