sad poetry

i stand in the cold gray weather
the old songs
i saw with open eyes
my mother taught me that every night
it tells of good old times
little park that i pass through
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
in and of itself
the lightning flashed, and lifted
a mist was driving down
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought