| If a poet writes a poem a thousand miles from his love does he love her.
Posted: 7/2/2009 3:28:44 PM | If I a writer; poet
sitting upon a windy porch,
of just yonder church.
To write these words; to you.
These leaves of lined parchment,
for me to leave so discarded,
a cluttered assortment; written leaf;
upon the hardest pavement: to fall
and rot; such decaying words,
birthed unfit and pronounced
lies dying at the feet of such familiar roots.
As autumn leaves; fall
in newly summers' rain.
Leaving leaves upon the earthly,
floor: Below
Tallest pine and waving willows; past
Will the winter of my soul,
haunt me again so soon?
To walk the forested paths; before me
In search of a leaf,
one out of a hundred millions
As I walk, I feel as if something watches.
My heart laid so very naked;
yet secure.
The Ancient, haunted trees have eyes,
judging my quest before me
knowing the unspoken rule
that if I but faulter once and twice
the darkest before dawns
consequential; dire wolves
creatures of this nights
cruely cresented moon
Awaiting for me so patiently; hungered
to rip me shred, to very shred
of my humanity, and being.
Yet writing this,
and looking above me,
a lone leaf flutters: still
Beckoning only to me! truly?
As I write this so joyously down,
saying "Eureka, my heart,"
I thought you my dearest should know!
That I love you, so
Though we be miles and miles apart
I still love you, so
Right here, on this written leaf
Shade for your heart. | |
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