The Muse Insightful
She holds a door
she sits behind, and in
her time, she turns the knob
and opens up my mind:
to the wonderment of icy snow
upon a whither tree or a statute
of a man
walking in daylight to see his
girl or,
maybe, to his mother’s home
on a Sunday afternoon in May;
to the sheerness of the air, and
how it covers all the lives
of all the people
on all the world,
without their knowing or caring
why;
to the truth inside the eyes
of those we love and those we
hate
and those who pass by unannounced
and unafraid, who see no future
in a past worth saving;
to the words upon this page
and the letter combinations that
I write,
none out of place, none overused,
each put outside the door
for all to wish upon, as stars.
© Catherine Woods 1999, 2017
No comments:
Post a Comment