Monday, July 3, 2017


The bark is rough on the back of my hand--
The river is gruff in its reign--enough
Of this gray demand, of this grimy, bland
And morbid brand of moldy fluff--

I'll bring from these woods a brighter song
To wind our coulds into wild new goods
From the crimes and the wrong you crafted so long
In the wretchedest throng, I wrenched from all shoulds--

The thrush is now singing through my thought
In single sounds ringing in a symphony spring
That rages from naught into a river of ought
Whose newness has bought what no one could bring--

I borrowed from nature her beauty, from time
I nurtured the clay of the now, yesterday
And I clasped them in rhyme and clambered to climb
From the righteous day's grime to ride and to play.

No comments:

Post a Comment

I appreciate all constructive comments.