Drycicles

She left the other day, I stood

Silent

In front of the paper I

Would have written something

But for a moment

Blinded

I realized she had left me unknowingly

My inspiration, somewhere hidden between

A million flakes

of Snow

Now, as I scribble what I know

I realize that

As times fly

So does the memory, the will to express

What I would otherwise forget to

At the dawn of day.

She left, my inspiration, the other night

We hadn’t had a fight in ages, I would put down and she’d agree

That what was written was not wilfully

Mine, or hers.

And here is now my limping phrase, serenading the breeze

Thankful that I could be there in that one second

To say good-bye to the train, or was it a

Plane that left?

No, it was a dying bird, my inspiration, singing like

the Nightingale; for a pale memory of misty mornings

And hot afternoons and rainy autumn

And the winters of storm, with tears of devils forgiven by God

After the Judgement.