These are strange times, I said. But when aren’t they?
The distant murmurings I hear now will be tomorrow’s shout
And I hope for something better when it’s already here.
Excellent, a most excellent day, this one. I could spend
The afternoon wishing for lost hopes, or go take the fruit
Now. This even the crow poking about the grass knows.
When I count the minutes out, one by one, I often lose
Track, broken train of thought. But when I think about time,
I lose track of the desire to count the minutes, one by one.
The cypress tree will await your return, and all returns
Hereafter. I suppose that means it awaits no returns at all,
And I should say to you, with a certain joy, “Don’t return.“