Passage Without Creation

The passage weaved into
The lace of the winter hills
Is bereft of any fruit.
The birds' invisible whispers
Have no harmony, only white stone.
The black branches sing teenage songs
And the road has lost all semblance
Of its serpentine virginity.

Ah but I am still myself
Despite not wanting to be.

The rain embroiders the leaves
A veil of polkadot,
Without wisdom, without greed.
The daffodils have no ribs
And the orange blossoms don't
Bleed when pierced by the giant reed.
From treetop to treetop the sparrow flies
But never back to its nest.

Ah but I am still myself
Despite not being allowed to be.

The wind has not learned to kiss;
It has not met the waves.
O but there is something wrong
For the silence is singing.
The fields have not been
Given the keys to their reflection,
So how can they ever caress
The silence that defies history?

Ah but I am still myself
Despite no one knowing it.