there is nothing romantic about death about pain tears falling like soft clouds like copper clouds the color of rusted blood the texture of fire the first enemy is fear the second power the third old age all my life all those books all those feelings words thoughts experiences to say such simple words to feel such simple things your mountains like my own like home rows of dust of light brown soil as if a gentle wind could level them could blow them away the sea touching my nostrils filling them a country of smell of sound of wine flowers of salt air of early morning opening and opening through my mind my heart the extremities of my hands my feet if I were a bird and could float dipping and weaving tapestries of air and light if we could fly together like silver crows birds of dream until everything stops is silent and gentle like your songs your voice but the world allows us nothing the world is nerves is fiber dust and sand the world changes constantly nothing remains the same I see you singing into the air as if your voice could fly be free were there creatures above you listening fishing your gifts from the breeze was there a place that could hold you as you opened yourself to it as you went where no one else could follow where no one else could see each time I have loved I have left part of myself behind until now 1 am mostly memory mostly dream what I have left I give to you my last love my last song the total of all I have ever felt or known we grow smaller as we grow as things empty themselves of us and we of them it is so deep this thing between us no name can contain it even time trembles at its touch
Susan Sherman