A Wanderer
Maybe by tomorrow morning,
I would have forgotten about you;
How you live in my poems
And how I lost in my words.
Maybe by this midnight, I would
Have stopped dreaming about you.
So whenever I gaze at the night sky
I'll see the moon and not your face.
Maybe later tonight when
I finish this poem and decide
To lie in my meadow, I would have
Remembered how to go home.
(For B.D.)
