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LONGING
By Quentin Smith
Will I never write the poem
Of pure serene being?
Of elms swaying softly
In the summer light,
And the sun infusing silent
Wonder on the wind-toned leaves?
Will never the dark nothing
Beyond the closed windows
Mushroom slowly into a crimson presence
Of a horizonless sky?
And will never the stars of the year
Write on my eyes their poem of love?
And will then all differentiation finally vanish
Leaving a luminescent presence
That identifies me and all else
Within a soft sheen of boundaries melted?
Written 1973 and 2002 |