Unfinished

I stand here, quaking,
like those aspen you showed me,
unfinishing the poem
I cannot write.
Quaking--to feel warmth
in chilling breeze.
Empty-handed,
looking at Stars,
wonder how they still
manage to shine in the frigid night.
Do You shiver in solitude?
Can You get warm?
Show me how....

I lie here, stroking
my hair,
like the wind
in those mountains
you brought me to,
unfinishing the book
I cannot read.
Stroking--to feel passion
in sterile room.
Empty-handed,
looking at Sunset,
wonder how it still
manages to paint vibrant
on the dusty night.
Do You caress the land lovingly?
Can You still feel?
Show me how....

I turn here, streaming
with tears,
like that river we passed,
unfinishing the song
I cannot sing.
Streaming--to feel whole
in enormous bed.
Empty-handed,
looking at Waters,
wonder how they still manage
to surge through the endless night.
Do You pour out your sadness?
Can You forget?
Show me how....

(For JMS, original draft 8/8/96, rev 6/17/2015)

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