I watch your poem go down in the west
And know old friends are gold without a doubt.
I clasp your hand to wish you my godspeed.
Our epitaph is written in your eyes.
White gulls of snow are swirling through the air.
Perhaps, in token of all mortal flight.
I will not call after departing wings.
Good-bye is such a final winter word.
Somehow the moment seems so windowless.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008