Comments about Marsha Sperling
Last Page In A Journal
Between this and the previous page,
Between now and all that went before,
There have always been children inventing games
On the lawn and racing the wind.
Pausing, then turning back momentarily
To laugh with them
An old man in his threadbare, mothy black coat
Tottered along the pathway.
He, like me, restless with the gathering momentum
Of these honey-colored days.
Ancient father: I want to give the seed of your seed
Remembrance of you.
Did they ever really know you at all?
For the wind is not so high today to dry
The tears just now in ...