last night the ash and maple fought
for the moon in my backyard.
now a vulture hangs above the east window
as the unspent days are folded
and put away
like a leaf pressed in a book.

there is a golden decade
when the body's needs are few
and the mind's are insatiable.
that time is past now, the mind
is sluggish and the body
clamors for .. relief.
how i wish that the flowers of spring
would open to the miracle
of a non-event, the truth of an ordinary day.

where is my home now
since i have lost the threshold of your hand?
love is the only word there is
and a fool's tongue wears out
trying to learn to say it,
although the meaning has been there
every day of my life