How foolish we have become,
        Missouri Angel.
        We speak today as tho' it were yesterday.
        We invent stories of a tomorrow
        That we cannot see.
        And we wonder
        We constantly stumble
        In our future blindness.

        We are addictively fixed
        On one another.
        Yet we discover,
        As all addicts must,
        That addiction
        Is a foolishness
        That has a price.
        The cost is painfull
        No matter how sweet the fix.

        And we are brought back
        To confront the reality
        That it is no longer yesterday,
        But today.
        And all our longings
        To turn back the tide
        Lead us to futility
        In whose waves we drown.

        Oh Susan, my sweet lily
        It canot be, not today!
        And perhaps not tomorrow.
        He whom you wish me to be;
        She whom I wish you to be;
        They are fantasy figures
        Created in our childlike
        Dreams and desires
        Of yesterday
        When we were younger
        And more hopefull.

        But what of the good?
        But what of the sweetness?
        But what of the beauty?
        But what of the pieces that fit?

        Ah, they are locked in that secret garden
        Of remembering
        Where I walked - to find you;
        Where we encountered one another.
        There beyond the Rivers we crossed,
        Hidden away in our yesterdays.
        There we made love.
        There we communicated!
        There we hoped and dreamed.
        There, in that dream garden
        All was possible.
        It was good, and sweet, and beautiful,
        As YOU are good and sweet beautiful,
        My beloved Missouri Angel.

        Oh do not weep, Susan
        That yesterday is no more.
        Smile in the knowledge
        That we had our yesterday,
        And in the bitter-sweet
        That it is for us.
        Our yesterday will not depart.
        Not ever.
        It remains with us forever,
        A part of our lives
        That a million rushing Rivers
        Can not wash away in the tides.

        And who knows
        That the future Aprils of our lives
        Shall but find us lesser fools
        For having loved each other
        As we have,
        As we do.

        Oh bunny!
        Your bear loves you still - but now more distantly.


Return To The Susan Index Page

Return To The Poetry Index Page

Return To The Literary Index Page

Return To The Site Index Page

Email Shlomoh