A Song for Simeon

Lord, the cold is creeping in the narrow alleyways making barren and inhospitable the old refuges I feel it in my bones—this may be my last winter Long have I shuffled through these broken streets and seen my face reflected in shards of shattered glass I have seen tree-lined neighborhoods decline, then prosper again, with flowers blooming, only to fall once more into boarded windows, dirty needles, and dry, shadeless trees I have seen the fulfillment of the promises of three generations of politicians in the newspaper rags I have burnt in barrels to warm my shaking hands Cities know seasons no less than people A winter surely follows every summer and a spring every winter, though sometimes the thaw comes too late Time has purified my desires and exorcized my ambition To see children playing in the park is the only food I need To watch the waves swill in the bay is sufficient company Each day's joy is sufficient unto itself Every fallen, crumpled leaf is an urgent premonition So strange, that I may not see this shade of red again So strange, one morning the Lord may not wake me up Eighty three winters, but only eighty two springs Every yesterday heralds a tomorrow Every dusk foretells a dawn Every dream promises a waking but maybe not this time maybe not this time when the cold is creeping and the darkness settling and a man long old goes to his rest