I walk with you again, this crowded
gravel path. We pass beneath dyingelms, fire maples, thick oaks. Soon
bats will rise up, above the trees.My hair clings to my skull in the rain.
I hear the river moving stones in its bed.The rain stops. Now, spots of sun,
the steady dripping from leaves.I come to you as to an old lover. You,
of all the rest, will never leave me.
POEMS
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MORE OF SB's POEMS
@WATERMARK |A Poet's Notebook
- Disclaimer
Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.
In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.
It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.
A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.
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