An account book

So much is missing from the account book
of times past: so many tears,
so many trips taken in vain,
permissions sought and wishes made.
was it so little I had time to give them,
bedtime tales of the unnecessary and no use,
didn't I tell them of the bending birch branch
resting against the solitary night cloud
like a hand on the cheek of a sleeping lover,
didn't I tell them of the billowing blue of the lilac
storming like the sea of happiness,
didn't I tell them of the summer day vanishing tomorrow
or of the lake's constant eye
clear like the tear in mine
when I go through the heavy accounts,
give my wavering hand to times past.

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