near the garden gate, and the winding trail
that circled roses and entered the dale.

They were many miles from my Salem home
and the streets where I so often roam.

That long trail passed through his garden gate;
and he could follow it, early or late,

through the long June grass or the winter chill
among the roses beside the rill.

But where can I find a trail for me?
Must I follow the river to the deep dark sea?

Death entered the concert,
and left,
riding above the guitars,
smelling of salt and blood
and dark tidal pools,
carrying you away
somewhere
into worlds we have not yet imagined.

II.

He is not himself any longer.
He has become someone walking unseen,
who we will sometimes remember,
and who we will sometimes forget.
He stands silent and still as we talk.
He will laugh when we remember we forgot him.
He will forgive when we are angry he left us.
He walks where we cannot go,
and will be waiting for us when we die.

III.

Tim the explorer
moving almost aimlessly
making the first finds

among oil puddles
in a broken parking lot
the first daffodil

one dark grey morning
biking to morning class
the first red rose bud

leaping on boulders
above a steep mountain cliff
the first autumn hawk

beside the river
one windy winter morning
the first thrown snowball

a hot August night
at a concert with friends
first heaven sighting

IV.

He first sang to his parents and to his friends.
When they fell asleep, he sang to the birds.
And when the birds warbled their own songs,
he sang with them under a midnight moon.
In the absence of birds, he sang to the trees.
Once, on a cold January night, he sang to the snow.

V.

Star-filled summer grove:
Tim's life a blazing comet
in the still dark night

VI.

And there remains his riddle …

Which is better?

A wild wooden wall,
rickety, unstable,
sticks all askew,
threatening to tumble across driveways,
to crush yellow rose bushes;

or an orderly row of firewood,
ever so safe
and ever so boring?

Listen to her music in the morning.
She sings while the sun rises
across the mist covered moors.
She croons a magical melody
over melted cheese sandwiches
and mugs of steaming milk.

Listen to her faster tune in the afternoon
as she feeds foliage to the livestock,
fertilizes her flower garden,
fixes chocolate chip cookies for the children,
fries chicken pieces in deep fat,
finishes up the weekly wash.

Listen to the words of the woman.
Listen to her melodies.
Listen to the lilt of her voice
as she moves among the men,
among the small children,
among the many animals.

Listen to the words of the woman.