In view of the passage of time, I write this. It’s much like Tolkien’s elves, time. Solemn and grey the elves passed from green home to Grey Havens, and thence to Valinor, never to awe a mortal eye again. Each one, having lived an age, bears the pregnant weight of an age’s memories. And the elves all finally go home, go home, returning from whence they came. And when they have gone, what? A new world is born.
A poem without much verse to it; lines tied together at the ends like shoestrings, with little to no attention paid to line-length or regularity of meter, like as one in haste snatches two socks from the drawer.
For Jennifer
A new December dawns today, new to all the world,
And tightly in the fog above are precious seconds furled,
Or falling all around us with the virgin snowbuds bright.
Cloud-cloaked is the sun; its hidden store of beams of light,
Is planted in the soil beyond the reach of human eyes.
Look! Snowflake upon snowflake rings with splendor as it flies,
Catch one on your tongue; it melts and others drown away:
And so is every second of the time we call today.
My most exuberant thanks to Unknowing, who can speak of poetry. I am learning to learn.
