Poems for the End of Winter
Three men stood along a bridge
and held the rail for life.
The old man's grasp was proud but weak;
the young man's, careless and light.
Only the middle man, now father to both,
gripped tightly, strong and grim.
He wanted to hold it for all of them,
but he could hold it only for him.
THE VAMPIRE'S SONG
What I take I do not love,
but the love I take is freely given.
It rolls away and suckles me in the dark,
then leaves your side to walk my ways forever.
Love melts away in morning light.
It wants the salty tang of night,
not your dull and aching sunlit life.
The love of a man is a ponderous thing,
and is better left in one place.
It makes a good foundation stone
and is useful for bridging streams.
Once laid it's heavy and sprawling -
it covers a lot of ground
and holds up well in bad weather,
but if misplaced is a real eyesore.
Because the love of a man is water and earth;
the color of loam, or manure, or clay.
It doesn't have the rainbow hues
that air and fire may.
ANOTHER POEM ABOUT LOVE, ONLY AGAINST IT THIS TIME
I don't know whether to tear it down or paint it white.
Maybe nothing should stand anywhere, ever.
If a man's not immortal, should the thing he makes be?
For once a thing stands, it fills in a gap.
To empty a gap brings the gap back to life.
And you can't bury that somewhere out of sight.