ON LEAVING

often, sorrow streams from our hearts,
flooding the roads of yester days and future days
when those close to our hearts are lost
along the path we thread

even, years thereafter,
puddles of sorrow gather
between the dry spaces of our memories

such sorrow gushes upward into the night
and touches the mountain of belief
that looms high, strong, and majestic
upon the peak of belief, near the clouds,

it is there
that memories and spirit meet
to peek at the stars, to see the moon,
and to face the day of hope
the day when the beautiful song of poetry
capitulate or conspire with the task of our weeping
to render or bring together
bouquets of gestures
of quiet but fertile abundant lush
of fragrance of honor
of what we have all the year long