We don’t see it’s really
sand beneath our feet.
We draw noise and light
and words over the untidy
fear of our last sun.
What will remain of the
demands I have made,
the accolade, the love
I have given, the grief
I have drunk, the hours
I have written
riven by loss, borne back
in battle, visited by
seasons of joy that robbed
me of language?
When the plans and pages
that had filled my life flutter
to the floor like careless leaves
On sure ground will I return
this borrowed breath
the sonatas I have performed,
the dreams I have played will be
— I will see – but a note
I surrender for a new song.
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