For a year I was forgotten.
No one thought of me.
I wandered the highways and byways
of this earth,
hoping never to be found.
And I wasn't.
Just another bum on the sidewalk.
Just another derelict among the unlucky.
My clothes were torn, a wee bit tattered.
My face a shade of five o'clock gray.
And when I spoke,
all heard the crack of dying thunder,
the beginning of a lost storm.
Then one spring I returned to life.
As the buds rose upon unbroken branches,
and flowers grew on stems once under snow,
I returned to this world.
My clothes neatly pressed,
my beard a finely trimmed snow.
No one asked me where I'd been.
No one asked, What of this life?
What of that still death?
Instead, the word was all of the stock market,
the rise of a bank account,
the fall of a mark when raised against the yen.
And when all looked aside,
I blinked.
And lived, for once, in the world between worlds,
the life that was within.
Still, no one asked, What of this life?
I asked another, What of that still death?
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