E. H. Johnson

The years roll by, once more December; The blinding snows fall once again. With aching heart I still remember The snows fell like this then.

A white mantle, shadowed with blue, Spread thickly over barren ground, Compassionately hiding from view, The frozen new-made mound...

The stars shine down this winter night, Just as they did so long ago. Pray God, your star shines soft and bright, To warm this heart that is grieving so.

He doesn’t like children, so they have said. He has lost his own, and his heart is dead. They know not of his walks ’neath the pale moon’s laughter, Of his trysts with memory and that tears flow after. They do not know that a small boy's grin Stabs like a knife, hurting deep within. But as from children he withdraws and shrinks, My heart is too much alive, he thinks.

I called him garrulous, but then, I did not know That all his words were but sandbags With which he built a dam Around himself.

But now, grown old, I’ve learned most men Who talk too much, Like me, are vainly building dams Against the sea Of loneliness.

Ah, frightened creature, Having fled into my barn, You can stop trembling now, You are safe from harm.

For I, too, have known The spiteful crack of guns, The fear of sudden death, How unseen bullet stuns.

Lie down upon the floor, Fear not the hunter’s shout. Here, I will close the door, Now you just wait it out.

I have known like fears; My barn is yours to use Till friendly night appears, Forever, if you choose.

I swam across the skies last night, While stars floated on the sea. But when I tried to pluck a light, The stars all eluded me.

Then riding a cloud which was passing by, I attempted to capture the moon, But it flew back to its place on high, And the sea was but sea, too soon.

He made the wooden barrels with great care, Proud of each keg and barrel that he made. A craftsman, he, who thought it only fair To give his best while working at his trade.

With loving hands he fashioned every stave, And fitted all the hoops with superb skill. To me, it seemed his shop made him a slave, But no slave ever worked with such a will.

When we were boys, he used to call us in To give us staves he had made into skis. Later, I learned they came from his best bin. How fine a trade, whose first thought is to please!

Some men seem born to do great things, Some seem destined to fail. To some misfortune ever clings -- Or so the weaklings wail.

I drifted through this life of mine, For years beyond recall. But as long as I refuse to whine, I don't feel licked at all!

I’ve known strange cities, lonely nights, Raw hunger and cruel cold, And have seen my share of tragic sights, That’s why I am young-old.

I’ve numbered friends amongst the great, When I was doing well. I’ve tasted hope, I’ve tasted hate, I’ve known a prison’s hell.

Yet through it all something I’ve kept, Something I’m proud is mine; Though oft in misery I've slept, .. And wept... I did not whine!

Within the secret chambers of my heart, I have stored too much of Yesterday. And now I fear that it may break apart, Sapped of its strength by dry decay.

For I have learned that stored-up memories Are not enough, that phantoms are not friends. Without new dreams, my weary heart foresees, A dead tomorrow as each gray day ends.

Today is for the living heart, -- the brave, While yesteryear is gone beyond recall. And if too much of it we try to save, Our treasure turns to wormwood and to gall.