(to my Family)
Go now and drink from the deep and silent well of sorrow,
blood and salt seeping into the cold Earth.
The Oaks keep their own council in the long and patient years,
murmuring the sadness of spring,
the sleep of winter.
Only memory makes pure the wind that sighs
among the shadows of the wildflowers
on the grave of yesterday;
I turned, and the wind came,
and you vanished like blossoms of jasmine,
rivers of gold caught up in the tides of air,
A sunset of golden mist,
no more than a moment of twilight,
then even the memory of jasmine was gone.
A symphony of silence and sorrow is life,
played out by luminous specters,
dissolving in the dawn,
And joy the single lily at first blooming,
with snow upon the ground.