Montreal in Autumn

To flames, the ashes weigh nothing.
When you are among them, they do not matter.
That they were old timbers, spoke to owls,
Is only a dream to tell to water.

To ice. the summer water is faint memory.
Once you have surrendered and formed up,
The picture is lost of what you knew.
Freedom is the cruelest dream,
Of ashes or of ice.

Rhythm comes easy to the wild .
It is their answer in time
To ashes and frozen spaces.
Under maple leaves where their wild dreams are playing
They can show you dreams in Time's own frosted face.

Days are a matter of
Time and fire
Hours of summer waters yield to old ice
Leaves to ashes turn for prediction
Freedom is the completion of
All desire,
And it is in the very air.
Freedom is in the very air,
The completion of all desire.






Montreal, October 2000