The earth is a tent,
under which,
I go on,
my life disappearing into sentences.
Cracks in the hard ground.
The diaphanous fog of the air,
an echo calling out.
I remain after the leaves fall.
Day dims to darkness,
the storm passes.
One life at a time
says the world,
as if life becomes a thread,
the plaster and walls of the next.
As if love vanishes into stone
and music is silenced.
It goes on,
accepting the seed
of its regeneration.
Waiting for the passage
of the cold.
The dreamer to wake,
hands to open.
Water in the soul
to turn to blood,
and the heart to beat again.
Trains go on to the next station,
ships move toward the horizon,
planes lift into the sky.
I see it changed and glorious
with sun.
Life shaking off its slumber
and coming to the door,
knocking,
until the dead answer,
laughing.