Grass, blanketed in snow, sings of dewdrops from Heaven,
Long since have the arrows of birds pierced the sky,
Frogs, deep in the great sleep of hibernation,
Dream of warm tranquil waters, now a lie,
Trees, their arms outstretched, collect the silver lining of the clouds,
While the sky, blazing with new light entrenches,
The horizon, an illusion hidden by mounds of stone,
Peaked by ice sculptures viewed only from natural benches,
Horizontal logs, now recushioned by unbroken softness,
Rekindled glory to the fallen that once paid the toll,
A king of unrealized royalty is one, who leaves these things untouched,
Realizing that the things unowned are what make the world beautiful.
--Don't tell anybody this, but I nearly forgot it was Monday. After a quick shuffle through some of my old stuff I happened upon this poem. Seems to fit the season nicely. This wasn't a past assignment or anything like a number of some of my previous 'dated' postings have been, more of something I wrote because I was in the mood to write something. I experimented with form a bit here too. I was writing poetically rather than writing a poem, though the end result is about the same.
I really, really like this poetic wordsmithing...
ReplyDeleteIts definitely how I feel about the world - the most joy I get from the universe is from those unowned things. Where nature expresses itself as it does... visually, in the way things grow, colour, movement, shape...
I'm joyous when immersed in such visual splendour...
Thanks for the comment.
ReplyDeleteIn cases like this poem, I sometimes find that my lack of planning has worked in my favor. Once I'm immersed, as you said, in whatever wandering feeling the writing has brought me through, the way to conclude is abrupt and clear.