The Final Staccato
Never did I wound the earth
As I wandered through green meadows,
On the edge of a mourning land.
Never did I steal a single grain
From the quiet grammar
Of nature’s rhyming fields.
Never did I protest the tender murmur
Of the morning air,
Brushing the skin of dawn.
Never did I fashion
even the smallest cage—
Not one a flea
Might call its own.
Never did I know where I misplaced
My better half,
Left unawares at life’s crossing paths.
Never did I summon a fellow soul
To walk beside me
Across long, lonesome roads.
And yet I passed,
Vaguely, before the facade
Of this promised land.
And now my eyes seek rest,
A closing hush,
A final staccato,
An eternal sleep.
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