How gracefully the colored glass
Reminds of our yesterdays,
And some tomorrows , yet to pass
That live nearby, behind the glaze

And stories, daily, people tell
Of fishermen, and castellans,
Of pennies in a wishing well,
And love newborn from just a glance —

I love the colors, but I’ve learned
The secret to their mystery —
That all who look will always find,
For we see what we want

To see

The sun shines down in beauty,
And many take their rest,
But you attend your duty,
That refuge of the blest —

Of habit, make a virtue:
To mind the farm, no fleeing,
But ask yourself if doing
Is your way of not

Being

I tried to say what you were like:
A tapestry, a chandelier —
But all of it seemed rather trite,
Just words poured out to disappear

Like steam that rises from a lake
On summer mornings, just outside
A room where you and I might take
A weekend. Just a short day’s ride:

And dress up for an evening out,
With you, so beautiful in red,
By candlelight-reflected wine,
And love exchanged by done and said,

Back to a room, the dark, a bed:
And feeling you both bright and near —
The pattern and the light, your eyes:
A tapestry, a chandelier

She said, “You were my world, you know.
Those years that we were friends, and all
That time, I kept a secret, though
I thought my hopes, at best, were small.

You never saw, you never guessed. I thought,
If you saw me date other guys, then you
Would realize that I was what you sought.
But that was just a fantasy, untrue.”

The wind blew still, no words were said.
She rose up then upon the hour,
And left there, just above his head
The last love she had left

A flower

some days, like that day,
are perfect days — and you know they’re perfect.

it felt as if we owned the autumn:
and I remember each sight, each scent,
and how unspeakably beautiful you were
and are to me

but

you

detached from us as effortlessly
as leaves do from the trees

for to you, as well,
it was a perfect day —

to leave

It’s funny: when the sky is blue, I think
The world is beautiful, and life is there
For living, in what lucky days we have
To see and feel the sun, and be aware

Of what discoveries may be there yet
For us around each bend, beneath each tree.
For like a theater within a park,
Our settings are a scene within a place

That carries meaning out beyond its form.
We are the cast who’ve yet to read our lines:
For most, unwritten still, have yet to be
Committed to in as so much as thought.

But here, a comedy, a musical,
And colors on the stage, and pageantry —
This is the sky, and day, turned into life,
Another mood, a harmony, a joy.

the intermittent persiflage
between us passengers is such,
that though we seem engaged, alive,
we hardly really notice much

like what it is for hopes to die,
or why it is we cannot feel
how light sarcasms in the air
are more than many chasms real