Ever since the sun first rose,
shining green through leaves
dancing in the dawn wind,
light like shifting stained-glass—
I’ve been sitting with this glass
or half a glass, of vin rose
that I can’t finish and won’t leave.
How did I come to wind
up here, alone, listening to wind?
Will another turning of the glass
find me walking among roses
or sleeping under falling leaves?
By my elbow, my book’s leaves
turn one by one in the wind.
Too delicate, this house of glass
to withstand the storm on the rise...
Better a green leaf in the wind
than a dried rose under glass.
