THE POET© By
Sharon Angleman
I
follow
a shadow through a forest
hosting trees of gray bones and
brittle life,
and movement
of only dust.
My nostrils cry in protest
to the oil smell of long-trodden,
sullen earth
and still
I follow
A forgotten bead from a strand broken of age.
Though
no other creature stir,
I hear spirit-laden, evening
voices
Promising that one perfect thing.
Soon
the shadow slows in tarry
and lefts a feathered, inky finger
to a
sky thick and heavy from air
breathed through too many lungs.
My eyes follow the infinite, milky thread.
Past fleeing winds over broken
fields,
To see a translucent, golden sphere levitating
and illuminating
words
I have
touched. And breathed. And quilled response
To allusiveness engraved on moist and thirsty
eyes.
As
I know with senses all save one
The rhythm of their song lulls
my weary weight to rest.
The inky finger touches slowly my lids,
closing dilated, seeking eyes.
I dream.
In
and of a forest lush with shame and glory.
In
a sense of place seeping truth from abreast,
I lay on webs of softly rotting,
dewy leaves
Suckling tranquil pulp of laborious seed,
none to be ever lonely more.
I groan with spirit-laden, evening voice
promises of that one perfect
thing,
and look
away to the birthing East
But feel a soul’s lusty mate in inky West
skies.
|