Thursday, December 6, 2007

An Equinox

No longer shall I use the words
of a thousand long dead men
to describe a scene they've never seen
or a feeling never felt.
For how shall I compare thee
to a summer's day, in spring?

And right before my eyes
I see the ducks return from southward flight.
But the words I write will ne'er describe
the beauty of such a sight.
And the golden sun is soon eclipsed
by Boston's golden dome,
and the pinkish dusk surrounding leaves
is not of words I've known.
And so I sigh as I secede
to poets writ of timeless beauty:
Their syllables will some day fade
and render me unable to speak
of the beautiful truth, rage, passion and grace
that will always be of thee.

March '05

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