Although it is outside
and we are in,
the mist falls softly
on our conversation,
this winding road marked
by two gray figures
looking on.

All too soon,
our hands are numb.

We know it well,
but let them be mistaken
for a map of leaves,
a meadow where hopes
converge and dreams
will grow.

June 14, 2006

Previous Entry     Next Entry     Return to Songs and Letters     About the Author

Many of the poems on this site are available in print editions.
Main Page
Author�s Note
A Listening Thing
Among the Living
No Time to Cut My Hair
One Hand Clapping
Songs and Letters
Collected Poems
Early Short Stories
Armenian Translations
Cosmopsis Print Editions
News and Reviews
Highly Recommended
Let�s Eat
Favorite Books & Authors
Useless Information
E-mail & Parting Thoughts

Flippantly Answered Questions

Top of Page