IT COMES TO ME
What would you have me do with these my tears,
shall I gather them together in a tiny bottle and keep them
on a chain close to my heart,
or shall I scatter them over the dying autumn flowers,
shall I walk with them over the meadow
and let the wind carry them away
or let them fall to the earth with your ashes.
. . . for I have seen you there
amidst the trembling leaves on the sycamore trees,
in the crystal pearls on the tips of marsh grasses,
and when the meadow-lark rises on the breeze
I hear you whispering my name in the flutter of its wings,
. . . then it comes to me and to my understanding
that you are not gone, you are everywhere.