one from zero

the drama of a life in one act
a bed, a chair, a table
a flower on the table
a closed door
he left and
that chapter finished
he felt nothing and
took nothing but his rucksack

one only needs his empty hands
to start from zero
somewhere else
 
distant in memory plays
the odd melody
it’s the description
of an impressionist painting
with static harmony
tacit, austere, with much
for the connoisseurs to talk about
a spontaneous impulse
of still nature  
the existing, the persevering
the continuing ever onwards
the voice within saying
‘be careful, play your part
look both ways
before crossing the street and
carry on improvising
because that’s life’
 
at least it’s spring
the wind blows friendly and
behind the wind goes he
as one who leaves forever
because there are times
when one expects nothing…
but love