1/19/11
It pours through green needles in a quiet but breathing wood.
Sweet or hard-tasting, it is the inevitable memory.
Always present on that morning or this moment,
And always better-looking in the light.
Suspended in flight along the beckoning highway
We are sick with it as we leave and come anew.
Purloined from the rough, we grasp to what seems beautiful now, and right.
It should have been, and was, in treacherous mutation,
And always better-looking in the light. 
No comments:
Post a Comment