Black From White

I have begun to strain the black from the white
But I fear-- and this is an old fear of mine;
It's had time to grow over the years--
I fear that once I am left with the good
I will not be able to find it
That is, when the white or the newly born
Are no longer bound to their homes
They will be of such a small number
That they won't leave
and then I will forget about them altogether
They will not become old or grow into the
Black, decaying plants in my mind
Instead, they will go unnoticed
(They are silent in that way)

The goodness never wants to share itself
I realize this and I am ready
For what I cannot imagine
(I shun all evil and if the good
Will hide...is nothing left?)
I wish someone could tell me--
I wish I could believe them--
I wish that the black would stay
And that I would not be afraid of it

But every thing that is new
I am straining with the old
It's just too small--
It slips through every time
This is what I'm doing and yet I know
That it is wrong
I'm never leaving home
I am never growing old
I'll do my best to prepare
For future years to come
Because there is nothing else to do
If the memories are bad
Then they must be done away with

I have begun to strain the
Black from the
White, and yet...
Nothing has gone
Away