Thinking of you, and your beautiful words.
“Not enough!” she said.
Cattle muse over the sound of passing crow,
then bend their serious eyes to a plush of hay.
Images in canvas would explode, if they could.
Hymnals are dented with chorus thumbs, but no echo turns their page.
Wordsworth beat the bells at Tintern Abbey; he grappled with ropes,
clamored past time; he sank into a collage of misdelight.
Give me a yell o yellow flame!
Clap two times and tell: what do you hear
in the grey carcass of night?
Will whisper dare an answer?
Copyright 2009 TAWhite
