light rain drizzles on silent leaves
like small beads from a broken necklace
or minnows in the waves of a green sea

i want to write a poem
that shimmers like raindrops
with a transient mood of love and mystery

but after the rain the twilight sun
sets in a golden cloud
as the eastern sky turns purple

and night comes like an old cat
with black fur and old bones,
yawning and creeping away
in the mystic moonlight

all of my dreams
melt away in mist
like pale wine floating in a fragile glass
my love-filled eyes are lost in darkened memories

i ache
but it has nothing to do with you,
it has to do with rivers.

and when i talk, you can hear
a long road in it--what i don't say
makes the sound of wind in the trees.

i tend what isn't mine for the having.
if i'm lucky, you'll remember me.

fear of loss    at times
makes me abandon what
i know i must relinquish eventually

and passion makes me love you
as more than an object to possess,
more than a presence--
but as disclosure of the divine.

being seen when you returned my gaze--
not knowing where i ended
and you began--
i thought we engendered
every quadrant of space
(each with no city of origin,
living in the same territory
beyond time and space)

maybe loving means
being wounded by infinity

i ache.
but it has nothing to do with you.
it has to do with shadows on
the unmade bed,  scattered papers,
books in rows and piles, cups
of tea gone cold,
and plates of crumbs
from a banquet we never shared;
like wreckage from a ship spoiled by storm,

it has to do with rivers