And All Around Me, Life Goes On
Some days, all we can do to see a wider world
is lie quietly in the sun, faces curved to sky,
watching leaves drop color and die, as clouds
paint a bleached collage of our other places.
All this radiance and warmth must surely
reach something deeper than skin,
higher than your mountains and stars,
less broken than my in-between lovers.
Yet, why does the wind winter swiftly?
If I fade to sleep, dreams will pull me
to body tired Autumn nights in Boone;
Perseus chasing Pegasus across a dingy lens.
Do you remember?
Somewhere, far to the south of my dreams,
you climb toward a circumpolar view, where
your lens is robbed of my brightest star.
I envision your weary form in these clouds
as you drag a trail across that uncertain heaven.
If you are seeking peace, come home.
Our days apart are beyond the stack of peaks.
All that is left is a calming stroke of hands,
the sharing of pictures in winter clouds.
That is enough for me, if I am with you.
If you are seeking redemption, come home.
You will discover the best of it here, in my heart.
Years become mountains. We both know the trail.
When will you remember me?
Shirley Alexander's Other Poems
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(November 9 - 1937)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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