She tells me of nights I'll be cold and alone,
When pain is the question to an answering moan,
The secrets I'm keeping lie still like a stone,
Till the words are dragged out to the sky.
She suddenly turns and there in her eyes,
A desperate plea, that I would be wise,
But before I can question her truth, or her lies,
She steps through a door and is gone.
The crone she is weaving, the warp and the weft,
My innocence gone, and I am bereft,
So now I must wonder what she has left,
What's taken away with her eyes.
The warm winds are sighing their way through my room,
Red light through the window, the light of the moon,
My bed tries to sing me to sleep with its croon;
My fists are clenched tight till they bleed.
I can't lose the city where snow could fall white,
Where gold was her hair in the yellow sunlight,
A boy such as I might dream of the sight,
Of a woman, dressed in blue.
November 30, 1992