arik

(i'm feeling much better, for more on that see my previous entry)

i sit beside the fire and think
of all that i have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

i sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that i shall never see.

for still there are so many things
that i have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

i sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that i shall never know.

but all the while i sit and think
of times there were before,
i listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.