Saturday, November 12, 2005


He may see a dawning
of subtle colors
in pink and gray and gold
rolling ‘cross this morning sky.
With eyes – touch its texture
of ostrich-feathered quilt.

She may recall the moment
of first recognition, the touch
of a new hand and the kiss
that called her, Lover,
from another novel
not so rich as this.

It may be heard in the brook
from the bank by the oak
and the murmur of summer leaves.
Soon wind hurls snow
as its inner echo still howls
from October before.

May take an easel, notepad or piccolo,
paint with words or water-color copies
of the moment, memory or scene.
Sing by woodwind,
stringed chord or vocal.
May even buy tickets to the zoo.

The light always shines
and the chime rings true.
The poet only ponders its meaning.
The artist transcribes its charm.
Every expression is the Word in a new way,
each a translation of love.

1 comment:

  1. This poem is inexplicably beautiful. Thank you for sharing it.