track runs through pines along the shore.
The roots seem to hold on to sand.
wipes the sky and washes
the moon’s cracked face. Tonight its beams
out no coloured horsemen. Life is change,
and change is just a line of little deaths
like the wind high in these trees in dying.
a season such as this
the soul may shrink and dry like leather
a hard, small ball,
something to be thrown and hit
if not caught in love’s firm glove.
This poem was originally titled Gironde, after the region in France in which it was written.