The snow on the path was in gentle decline,
And gentle drops fell, like dew from the vine,
As blue jays and starlings, and other such thieves,
Called out their names through branches and leaves,
Who fiercely intent on their feathery needs,
Eyed the damp ground for last summer’s seeds,
Picked out by sunbeams, dancing through reeds.
A tall man, an old man, on the dampened path stood,
Eyeglasses glinting, head turned to the wood,
To listen, and wonder, what language they spoke,
Or if, instead, dreamed, before they awoke,
And if, in their dreams, these times understood.
‘Where went you away? Did you travel so far,
As you followed the light of this weary star?
Did you happen to fly over Reason’s sweet land?
Did you make it this year to fair Samarkand?’
But, before they could answer, a woman’s voice called,
‘Wait, for a moment, there’s one simple thing more,’
Waving her hand from the old cottage door,
‘Don’t forget, sweetie, that bottle of wine,’
He nodded, then smiled, in casual good-bye,
Waved a hand in salute,
Then turned back to the sky.