Two Poems

Song

Think, a hundred years from now
what will remain of this day’s grief?
What, of this mother
and her mad daughter,
and all the wild rains that were?
O all the tears,
the ones she cried, and those
that cried themselves, flushed
from her eyes without her?
Unruly rivulets!
Such storms of water!

Of this day’s grief, what will remain?
Only a song.
Only this song - sprung
like those rivers wrung
unbidden out of the rock
of hopeless hope,
...