Barb, Because You Were by Bob MacKenzie Thirty three is not a pretty time to die: Just as the desert starts to green again And just before those wild red flowers bloom; Not yet quite half-way from the beginning And certainly - God! Certainly not the end! Because you were my friend; because you were. I believe I've seen some of the handwriting Scrawled hopelessly across your walls in red; I believe I've done some writing myself, Left my name in rainwater on your mind In the hope it would not evaporate soon. Because you were my friend; because you were. Oh no, thirty three is not a pretty time, But you'd struck a match or two in darkness As seeds for gardens of wild red flowers. (What great torches had you planned to plant there And what vast deserts cultivate with green?) Because you were; because you were my friend. Yes, I believe I have been in your garden, And while I don't know what you've planted, If you read the handwriting on my walls You'll know now of my obligation To plant for you some wild red flowers. Flowers, Because you were my friend. published: The Other Side |