The things I leave behind are these:
an unexpected summer breeze,
a quiver in the poplar trees,
a rustle in the dark.
These also I must leave behind:
an open, probing, careful mind,
the memory of something kind,
an apposite remark.
All these I leave behind, and more,
a thousand things I’ve kept in store,
all flotsam on an empty shore,
abandoned now for good.
So now I’m ready to depart.
I’ve done with beauty, done with art,
and all that wisdom can impart,
and every should or could.
I give You what I am, that’s all,
an offering so weak, so small,
that if I hadn’t heard You call,
I’d never dare to come.
But since You have, and since I’m here,
please draw me in, but not too near,
lest alchemy of things once dear
should strike me deaf and dumb.
Michael Schaub is a poet.