Collection

So what good a collection of old things?

Coins rusting in damp places,

Or memories eaten away by time, by age.

What good yesterday for it is gone.

And what good these amazing dreams?

These well made plans, lofty destinations,

Wild ambition and the tastelessness of success.

For now is where I am

And you are gone.

These rooms do not hold your sounds,

Nor this bed your warmth.

The nights do not find you by my side,

And in the days I cannot see you.

Even the anger in your voice is lost

And the wildness of your heart

And above all………

The touch of your hand in mine

For that I could not collect,

Could not keep except in my mind.