Bittersweet Snowscape
His hand turns the faucet that starts the flood to flowing.
Who is he? Where does he live? Where did he plan on going?
And what stood in his road?
What stopped his march and blocked him where he stood,
deciding what was bad and what was good?
A half-created tree,
turns gilden leaf and then turns silver bough,
not knowing why nor how.
My songbird rests upon the silver bough,
lined with crystal now,
from each six-sided star flake floating down
from Cloudy Town
She blesses the wood with her fluttering sound
Like the liquid fiddle bow on sinew strings--
Her song seems drowned.
Maybe she wonders, maybe she knows,
Who am I to ask him where he goes?
Or why hunger throws
my daughters into harlots' clothes
Or why darkness grows and anger stews?
What gives me a choice to choose? A voice to lose?
I've grown up like a tree,
Without a life to live,
Without a life to lose.
