The old lovers in Japanese gardens,
Sitting alone, wept over “maybe.”
For thinkers, “maybe” just means
Tomorrow, or a hole in the wall.
Don Quixote had read so many
Wild books that all he knew was “maybe.”
We love “maybe,” but it doesn’t jibe
With the brown dirt of the cemetery.
You and I can still leap down the road.
At each step we enjoy the word “maybe.”