Monday, March 28, 2016

Robert Verdon, #93, We are Nature Walking

the young stars were pinpricks in a shroud,
a flower not a flower, but a magic path,

so we might do what others dreamt about;
it was not night or day, but some

intermediate time, when boulders had the
strength of ice or water,

when decisions were made
with every consequence known;

our lives were diving from a tower
while terrified of heights,

our only fear, of dying
(or doing anything) in vain,

of breaking our necks
in a dry ditch —

until we saw that we were nature walking,
and that we were sleek and wet as hail or snow

or rain.

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