July 11, 2013 § Leave a comment
Is thy day’s joy from a wandered child?
Bloomed in whited plumage of leaves
Aged forest, or of my sigh
Nature’s singing, sweet and wild?
Can words poured from a hollow well mock creation?
Apprentice god, I make of script a depthless landscape
Printed flowers hast thou for gardens.
What happiness can I give thee?
Rivers of ink, run dry,
One patch of uncertain blue
For all thy sky.
Will murmured words become thy mountains
Scratching curls, thy towns and streets
And hilly lanes, and roofs of houses
Rise from crisply folded sheets?
Emotion’s compass moves which way from me?
Can one breath of moisture caught
Return thee to the sea?