There are so many things I want to do,
to fall into the southern sun, the blue
that smells of pines and sings
with voices not my own,
to sit among stones old as trees,
bell towers against the sky, wild thyme full of bees.
So many things that like the swallows flown
I’ll never see, instead I spin this web
and sit entrapped in words, the substitute for be.
The lake shore recedes, and waters that once lapped
now flow into the endless blue and singing sea.
Am I the dark cow that cannot find the barn
in the deepening night? The fox barks on the hill
a hundred years away, he calls me still.