Thursday, July 08, 2010


This poem is the child of the previous post - a development rooted in the same experience.

The wind chases bright fractured
gleams over the grey sea,
the tree-dark green
of the encircling hill -
tosses the petals with small regard
for their fragile beauty.
The sun comes only in
short bursts punctuating
the fat grey of the clouds
gestating tirelessly above my head.

In such a way it too comes -
I cannot call it He, this vastness
with its divine connotations
randomly and so seldom here.
But were it summer heat
always, without the aching
chill of clouded skies,
would I ever know the
sudden searing joy
of unexpected warmth?


1 comment:

poetreehugger said...

Your poetry is a pleasure to read. Today's struck a number of chords with me. "Clouds gestating" is satisfying, "sudden searing joy" is pleasing to the ear, and the notion that "I cannot call it He" is something that I also realized in a moment this past week.
Thank you for your inspirational and spiritual works.