And…and so it goes:
As the thread outlasts the spool,
So the thorn, the rose.
Time observes its rule:
Each instant leaps back into
The dark lilied pool.
It sprang from. Each blue
Tile along the garden wall
Ends where it has to go
End, in a thin scrawl
Of grout that marks out its grave.
Summer comes to fall.
Though breathing and brave,
The sentence stops, that must burn
The air in its cave.
Thus our great concern –
Feeling shut in by the wall
Of our own pattern –
Seems quite natural:
Even with some makeshift plan,
How to keep it all
Going, how to fan
The embers of aftermath
Up now into an
Even flame – not wrath
Nor sudden lust yielded to –
But light on a path
That would continue
Until some kind of an end
Crept up into view
From around the bend
Or straight toward us from the dark
Who but would extend
That path, keep the spark
Still left glowing, nursed along
A last walk through stark
Finality? (Strong
Last words will count more than fond
2007-03-01
16:15:16
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5 answers
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asked by
Elizabeth E
3