I can’t help
But think about the dead.
Everywhere
Their flowers burn bright.
Still one of the living,
I walk in the woods every day,
But think about the dead.
Everywhere
Their flowers burn bright.
Still one of the living,
I walk in the woods every day,
While there's time,
Seeking peace,
Not in some distant place,
In this place,
Seeking contentment,
Not in some future hour,
In this hour,
Seeking peace,
Not in some distant place,
In this place,
Seeking contentment,
Not in some future hour,
In this hour,
Telling myself
Let the dead be:
Once I laid down
In that dark flowering.
—first stanza by Marianne Boruch.
