Five Songs

The sea rocks have a green moss.
The pine rocks have red berries.
I have memories of you.
   . . . . . . . . . . . .

Speak to me of how you miss me.
Tell me the hours go long and slow.

Speak to me of the drag on your heart,
The iron drag of the long days.

I know hours empty as a beggar's tin cup on a rainy day, 
empty as a soldier's sleeve with an arm lost.

Speak to me . . .

White Moon comes in on a baby face.
The shafts across her bed are flimmering.
 
Out on the land White Moon shines,
Shines and glimmers against gnarled shadows,
All silver to slow twisted shadows
Falling across the long road that runs from the house.

Keep a little of your beauty
And some of your flimmering silver
For her by the window tonight
Where you come in, White Moon.

Let a joy keep you.
Reach out your hands
And take it when it runs by,
As the Apache dancer
Clutches his woman.
I have seen them
Live long and laugh loud,
Sent on singing, singing,
Smashed to the heart
Under the ribs
With a terrible love.
Joy always,
Joy everywhere --
Let joy kill you!
Keep away from the little deaths.

In the loam we sleep,
In the cool moist loam,
To the lull of years that pass
And the break of stars,
 
From the loam, then,
The soft warm loam,
  We rise:
To shape of rose leaf,
Of face and shoulder.
 
  We stand, then,
  To a whiff of life,
Lifted to the silver of the sun
Over and out of the loam
  A day.

There are sunsets that whisper a good-by.
There is a short dusk and a way for stars.
Prairie and sea rim they go level and even
And the sleep is easy.

There are sunsets that dance good-by.
They fling scarves half to the arc,
To the arc then and over the arc.
Ribbons at the ears, sashes at the hips,
Dancing, dancing good-by. And here sleep
Tosses a little with dreams.