Soon enough has waited for me long since, Since I left in the dust wing of the rain. The pitter-past of fallen leaf, swept-street rinse, Has called out, its mercat tone new and plain. I knew the buds that scar these stones, I once could tell the moss-borne way. Here or there was mine to own, But how stones shift begs a ferryman's pay. Titled as a return in time, the old release At once flies to the light with the moths. I find in my hand the binding now creased And threaded, not even good for cloths. The words fail to match what they once were. I read them in their exile- fallen, wrung. Collecting at my feet in a wind-wisp whisper, Now to be lost in the tune on my tongue. If you could tell them as a once upon a time, I would be as the hearth-side child. If you could sing them as a mother's rhyme It will be me who weeps undefiled. For this, and more, I will be longing More than the earth pulls the moon By her weave of life- prolonging. My friend, my dream, I'll be there soon. In the end, there's more to truth than life. I say this too, as I always will: --Mark me gently, as the saints in their strife Have emptied out, knowing He can fill-- The going is for life and not the place. The staying for the knowing we can't hold. The leaving is the fall a friend can't trace, The story for the ones I never told.