All the photographs are faded.
All the clocks are slow.
Last year’s words lie stale like smoke
on used up air; the piano keys
are touched only to be dusted.
Rooms and furnishings
have been so long familiar
that they are merely memories;
and now is happening elsewhere.
But, habit being a substitute for will,
though the mirrors are tired of our faces,
and spring comes later each year,
we go on lighting flowers like candles
at windows dissolved by rain.
