We Are Like Trees. We Wear All

The Shivering Birds Beneath The Eaves Have Sheltered For The Night.

Upon The Clothes Behind The Tenement, That Hang Like Ghosts Suspended From The Lines, Linking Each Flat, But To Each Indifferent, Incongruous And Strange The Moonlight Shines.

I Know The Dark Delight Of Being Strange, The Penalty Of Difference In The Crowd, The Loneliness Of Wisdom Among Fools.

I Have Forgotten Much, But Still Remember The Poinsiana's Red, Blood-red In Warm December.

And, Hungry For The Old, Familiar Ways, I Turned Aside And Bowed My Head And Wept.