Whatever is there to explain, my dear?
The tinker of regrets and little lies?
The suspended breath of holiday drear?
The needs, the dreams, in our sticky surmises?
We are too smart but we are still children.
We are too much grown and too far apart.
So little time is given our brethren,
we are toddlers in eyes, and broken hearts.
And how, my dear, might I detail the day?
Perhaps with the memories of the old
and the dead, and all I've seen from the train.
What would I tell, dear? And what would I hold?
What little, my love, could I take to you?
Just a green blade of grass, frosted with dew.