No Street by Which You Might Return
Most any day you’d take your walk -
Sometimes the dogwoods were in bloom,
Or sometimes in a winter gloom -
You’d linger with some friend and talk.
Our streets were safe, but even so
If you walked on and on too long,
I’d fear there might be something wrong
And where I thought you’d gone, I’d go.
Now sometimes absentmindedly
I wait to hear you at the door;
I listen for your voice once more;
I wait for what can never be;
Forgetting that there is no street,
Now, by which you might return,
No friend to tell where you have gone,
No corner now where we might meet.
And should you wander tired and sore
Down endless streets beneath dark skies
Beyond the lamps of paradise,
I can’t come find you anymore.
Tim Muller, originally from New York, lives currently in Tennessee. He discovered poetry rather late, at the age of seventeen and thought then that poetry was the only adequate response to life he had found. The others, school, church, popular culture and family all seemed inadequate. He has written poetry intermittently for many years, but rarely tried to publish. Once he did manage to get published in The Formalist.
Grand Little Things 