Life fills me with a fond regret.
The gray has given, as a sage,
A wisdom which matures with age,
As well as wintry discontent.
I do not fear the front that chills.
The snow shall come and mist that moves
Our teeth to chatter, then approves
Our destination, there to still
Each bone, each tooth, each memory.
Such is the song all are drawn to.
I have touched death; no rhyme renews
Our song, our soul, eternity
Cast in a bowl, shaken, poured out
Unformed, all torn; yes, it is true,
No joy, no hate, no choice to rue,
No thought, no dance, no wine, no stout,
A little ground or sea to own.
Yet it owns us; there lays our gift,
The end to all, the slow, the swift…
A sleep as sweet as perfect poem,
An earth to meld with and to roam,
A warmth to heat the coldest stone.
Eric M. Vogt