Birds of the Winter

Will the stars open to receive me?
I would answer if they offered.
Eyes of sand looking to the gravesite;
I want to die before I’m too young.

Somebody said that we’ll live forever.
Somebody said that its not all over.
And I lay thinking of birds in the winter:
What are they singing; will things ever get better?
The blanket, I feel it—and I want to steal it
From off of you, just like I used to:
The little whimper; and I’d cover you
again.

Mists wrapped around the harbor’s lampposts.
You came to me as so many old ghosts.
They all passed through me without a touch
Into the night and out of my sight.
And as I cry, I hear birds of the winter.
What are they singing; and does it matter?

I want to be dreaming
Where oceans are meeting
The sky and the trees and the tears.
I will take a part of us with me
Though we haven’t connected in years.
I’ll bury a seed where we once smiled,
It will be as though I’m still a child.
I’ll lay at the graveside while I am weeping
I’ll turn to your echo as though its been sleeping.
And I’ll ask if you hear birds of the winter;
If they’ll be singing forever after.
And the sands and snows will reply,
No one knows ‘till the day they die.

© 2018 Marten Hoyle