What happens to a dream deferred?

       Does it dry up

       like a raisin in the sun?

       Or fester like a sore—

       And then run?

       Does it stink like rotten meat?

       Or crust and sugar over—

       like a syrupy sweet?

       Maybe it just sags

       like a heavy load.

       Or does it explode?

Hold fast to dreams 
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
     flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
     went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy
     bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

^{for Alex T.}

            a golden shovel after a line in ‘Gitanjali 73’ by Tagore  

The plant trimming requires no  
less than its water to be changed weekly. I   
ask my friend who gifted it to me: when will  
I be able to transfer it into soil? She has never 
told me anything but the truth. I don’t shut 
the window blinds now; my Plant-Friend loves the 
sun too much. I’ve been leaving the doors  
open too; the spirits flit more freely now. Yes, of  
course I’m afraid of death, but no less so my  
own life. A friend can bring you back to sweeter senses.