The huddled pigeons puffing out their chestfeathers
Bearing and squinting (in their birdy way) against the icy rainweather;
The lopped, toppled pine on a muddy curb
A month and three days past Christmas
It's green-going-brown needles gathering cold droplets
At every little needletip, to drip, to drip, to drip.
Somebody told me that God is pure act.
On a sleeting Monday morning--
With this joy in my body
These compounds in my brain
These thoughts in my mind
And these ice crystals melting against my numb cheeks--
I am gone dumb,
But I believe it to be a fact.
No comments:
Post a Comment