Many Things

Now and then she bursts a grape and makes it rain,
Cracks her knuckles and makes it thunder.
She's many things and will be much remembered,
But she's not the sound of one hand clapping.

Next spring when the world is green, pink-budded
And smells like an uptown whore I'll remember her
Whose words were the footnotes of a dazzling silence,
Whose eyes were sun, whose heart was moon.

She's many things and will be much remembered,
But she's not the wall I'm willing to walk through.
Meaning blows in one window and out the next.
Funny game, can't be serious.