Each mortal thing does one thing and the same: Deals out that being indoors each one dwells; Selves - goes itself; myself it speaks and spells, Crying "What I do is me: for that I came." ~G.M. Hopkins
Friday, September 22, 2006
a woman
sometimes
she struggles
not to desire
so very much
not to love
and more elusive still
she labours
not to love
so very much
not to inhale too deeply
so when that first breath
does come
her inspiration
will not be
small whisps of clouds
that danced upon tall summits
if it comes at all
to love so much
she trusts
Trusts
that even
with closed eyes
on her darkest nights
a radiant red light
will softly dwell
upon her sleeping eyes
and enfold itself
all around her
that she may embrace
and abandon
herself in
the exquisite pain
of her
wide open soul
again
she seeks to shield
herself away
from this love
but she cannot
remember how
and so
she goes from
day to day
with heart exposed
embracing
gracious trees,
gazing on
her radiant moon,
understanding the passions
of the sea,
and loving her earth,
with a joy that makes her ache
and loving a man
for all that he is
for all that he will never be
and some days
she
wishes
wishes
it all away
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment