If you walk with me to the shore I will show you the sea,
because down by the shore there’s an old house I know,
and every afternoon it lights up red in the February gloaming,
a fast red like approaching freight trains,
paralysing red like a stroke, but I
would walk you right into the red,
past the old house to the fields behind, if
you would walk with me.

And in the middle of the field there’s a barn,
a worn-down barnbuilding that has sunk to its knees
like an old ox
that slowly lies down to sleep.

But behind the barn,
the smallest branch of a big river runs into a pond,
a sad and stillborn water,
and the roses stand around the pond like a song.
And in the pond there is a small barge,
half filled with water and yellow leaves,
that has never sailed the ocean
the river falls into.
And I think if you would just stand
there for a little while watching
the yellow leaves you would finally see the ocean.
If you would only walk with me to the shore
I would show you the sea.

February, 2010