All the Afternoons

With my last remaining years

I dig a pit of nothingness

in which to bury me

I rock

in my wicker cradle

all the afternoons

watching

the sun go down

and down again

I hear

my mother singing

but the voice

is of my wife

and also of my daughters

in the wind

a lonely harmony

carries dust

into my bones

I cry -- I cry in silence

and cannot remember

why

I miss the dawn