walk back up there,
To
Pass an indifferent sword,
its flames now dimmed,
its possessor absent
And to find,
that apple,
two bites less.
And to eat again–
such a sweet sin!!!
–but it doesn’t
matter now.
Now to look:
mists fill the air, but one
senses that a fire built,
here, for warmth and
society, would
burn forever.
The air contains an
almost scent, as if the
possibility of all scents
felt us coming, and is even
now hiding, or perhaps
flirting.
Scraps of paper litter the hills
in this garden, and the flight
of birds fills the air. Where
they come from, and where
to, I do not know.
Slithering obliquely, a trail
of a snake extends over the
top of the next hill. He who
perhaps WAS once welcome,
is gone, to return no more,
his work complete.
One senses this is no place
for banks, or post offices,
Law clerks, or law.
The air has ears, and poetry is
never forgotten.
Ah, to remember is to learn!!!