Dorothy Dow

From “Handful of Ashes”

THE NIGHTS grow long and the days cold—

I dream of you and love.

The dead leaf, falling from the tree,

Is not more sad than memory;

Nor is the rising wind as bold

As were your lips on me….

(What are you thinking of?)

The streets and trees and people pass

Like words beneath my pen;

Symbols, below a painted sky—

I have no part in them. I lie

Futile as footsteps on the grass.

Wind-torn, storm-drenched; I long to die.

(You might remember … then.)