View From My Window
Midnight Among the Gardenias
We tiptoe among the gardenias
as the wind moans its sad note
of something dying. But the wind is
not dying; nor has it ever died. It is
something that is not of the flesh,
it is something paradoxical. You could
say the wind was a part of us all,
that it whispers for us alone.
And in the darkness, something cried-
but it was not one of death,
you see. For nothing ends with death.
See the gardenias? They are growing,
even at midnight as we walk among them.
See the crows? Even with their cold little
eyes, they are growing, changing,
a part of a cycle of something unseen, unheard.
as the wind moans its sad note
of something dying. But the wind is
not dying; nor has it ever died. It is
something that is not of the flesh,
it is something paradoxical. You could
say the wind was a part of us all,
that it whispers for us alone.
And in the darkness, something cried-
but it was not one of death,
you see. For nothing ends with death.
See the gardenias? They are growing,
even at midnight as we walk among them.
See the crows? Even with their cold little
eyes, they are growing, changing,
a part of a cycle of something unseen, unheard.
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Midnight Among the Gardenias
Midnight Among the Gardenias
