This wistfulness, it will not do.
There is no need to make it sad.
Young love still thrills and trips, you know,
Out here among the leaves and ash.
(And mercy falls where mercy will.
It chooses us against our will.)
And you can choose to answer back
Or hold it close, then cast ahead
In ever-widening rings of slackened
Shadows thrown like crumbs of bread
And will we wake when winter’s bite
Comes hard and fast upon the night?
Or sleep until the summer sun
Reveals our bony wings in flight?
I can’t pretend to understand
The ways in which redemption roars
But promise you I’ve filled my pockets,
And when you need it, mine is yours.