Where
do we lose our thoughts in things
that
wilt a withered way,
And
simmer dreams with grander schemes
that
keep our truths at bay.
And
somewhere in our shadowed stance
do
find our hopes still more.
That
echo wildly, knocking loudly,
and
clamoring on splintered doors.
That
open minds so fierce and still
they
would tame the shrillest wind,
or
shroud what colors meekly shown,
could
tie the tragic ends.
Rainbough
Bouchard
copyright
1998