if the wheat does not die, what do we reap?

last night, as the light's sediment settled
in the opaque glass of twilight,
i remembered when we spread out the map
of existence, planning a path to the sun.
i thought love was an
undying flower planted in the soil of life
or a living song like an eloquent bird in the heart.

but last night as the stars gathered around
the maternal moon, i heard poetry crying
in a baby carriage as the mist dimmed its eyes.
midnight was like the sleeve of an arm-less man--
empty, dark, and long.   dawn came and stood on
one leg in the pond like a blue heron.

i believe there was one night you were mine,

like a drugged butterfly on a bed of coals
or a rose beckoning in the fading twilight
as a golden star fallen from the sky.
the clock was singing a moss-grown dirge
and a poem watched the mountaintops
tinted by the sun;

in between was an insurmountable distance.