Sunday, September 28, 2008

Fall of Night

28 September 2008, 9:06 PM

I wonder where she's been- the Poet
who used to come alive so easily.
On hiatus, leaving me to find
the words with which to paint a picture
of the cornflower sky today, and the little
girl, the little boy, competing so violently
for me, for you, for whatever patch
of territory might be claimed by one
or the other. And in the midst of chaos

does the poet crouch upon her haunches,
waiting to pounce from the darkness,
take me by surprise, remind me
poetry dwells in the most unexpected
places of the Darkness, of the Light,
of the interplay of both, and the radiant
palette of sunset ere the fall of night.

No comments:

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

Site Hits