I always came back to the dew on the grass
I have no idea of the
Meaning by the words
The mouth has uttered.
In silence the world has
Long contemplated art
As a form of dying.
I have expressed it
Exceptionally well.
I was a stone, once.
Twice I counted myself
As the sky, imagining
I was Jesus.
If life went to fast
I took the footpath.
For me, though, I always
Came back to the dew on
The grass.
Lately I've learned not to
Frighten. Concerning
Myself with items
Like photographs.
I think of the day's hell
Passes us by
As a train on the railroad.
It's too easy to talk about sun
One day the dew on the
Grass will worry me less
That the Earth open up
And swallow me
All in good fun.
Mind numb to the cold
The frost so unloads.
May the soul of the Earth
Prove the gold it is worth.
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Comments
Oh my... This is absolutely gorgeous I see your soul in this dear Rory. You've been on a roll with your poetry and this is just magnificent. You are right, it's easy to speak of the sun, you do light and dark incredibly well. Kudos. 🌹 Love your narration in this, it's got everything from imagery to reflections and emotion. 🌹
I broke my writing hand, now it's in a cast.
You know they say you use the opposite side of your brain if using the adjacent hand?
Maybe there's something to it.
Oh Rory, so sorry about your hand but yes positively brilliant use of your other. 👌 🌹