The mountain lies there on the table, stone
And trees and snow, the alpine flowers showing
Between the cracks, up through the melting snow
That trickles down into rough rivers flowing.
The warrior sits there on the table, stone
In visage, stone in eyes, a weapon held
At ready in his steady hand, and proud
Of every enemy that he has felled.
My love for you sits on the table. Stone
Will wear away much faster than will my
Dark ruby love -- no! far above the price
Of rubies is my love, this lovely tie.
My poem lies there on the table, lone
In drawing my attention. The T.V.
Is on and yet ignored. This phonic fable
In verse and rhythms lives through harmonies.
The harmonies there on the table groan
For me to pick them up so I can read
The poems dozens more times than I have --
They draw me, drive me -- they are what I need.
The pen and paper on the table loan
A way for me to reproduce, to replicate
The beauties that I know and see in words:
The mountain, warrior, love, and poem wait.
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