The Seeds

These are quiet times of the heart
when the clock's beat
echoes on the walls, and silently
the green plants grow.

Outside it rains and rains, weather as
echo of old pains that never go
and cars and vans growl slow
out along the long drenched streets.

Music heard through the wall attests
to other lives lived, well, or badly
I do not know, except her lack
of thought late at night, her loud

return to rented space that keeps
me alone awake, the steps reverberate
the close, the wall vibrates a hatred at
the small inconsiderate act

and at its back yawns our gap - humanity's
lack of knowing what we are
whence we come, to where we go -
the long slow lines of life winnow out

like ribbons woven into cloth,
some dark, some bright, some quiet
some awake in the silent nights that know
the still small point of light in the palm.

Our deeds still warm, and celebration's
head cannot speak for the living
for the dead, so you and I go on
for there is nought else to follow

but a city's soaking streets
and a single clock that beats
and all our deeds recorded in time's
scroll, evergreen and evergrowing.

The quiet seeds are sowing our true season
and the children wait, with breath inheld,
to watch their green plants throwing
shadows on the wall.
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