I frittered away the remaining afternoon
and walked up to the window many times
to see if the sky held any last surprise

As it hung over my neighbor’s roof
the sun seemed almost
immortal. Picasso died this morning
I don’t know what tunes the three musicians are going to play
I don’t know which way the dove is going to fly

After showing us the world is still soft and kneadable
the masterly hands are now withdrawing
I reached out unconsciously
but realizing how childish it was
my grasping hands turned to clapping