Another Crank Of The Year
Sliding imperceptibly into a new decade
At the tail-end of a long winter, he watches
Dappled water - its waist embroidered
Now by the first sprigs of forsythia yellow -
Polish the untoothed mica of stones, and
Unwind its pale ribbon to the farthest coast,
Only to turn into monsoon rain on the horizon.
That is where all the loved voices reside - Those of lost companions, unheard in years, With all the rest - some of infants' who keep Arriving every year like the trusting goldfinches, And some of old friends' that keep vanishing Like the last of geese honks rippling north.
March 7, 2009 Atlanta
A poem written after a month of no writing, to mark the day of putting distance into the third decade (first mile done), with the hopeful wish that the underground voice of the muse not attended to (in the interests of Kapital) may become only dormant but not extinct.
My Poems
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