The books lie everywhere.
Some open, some shut with marks within,
and some simply closed, as if human touch
were forgotten.
A mind is sensed. It could be if
all pages were read up to the point indicated
we could reconstruct something.
A personality would emerge,
one sitting atop a mountain, waiting
for the traveler to ask, or one
within a cloister, surrounded by structure
all looking the same.
We trust the most silent, impalpable voices.
- Waiting To Watch The Water Clear: On Robert Frost’s “The Pasture”
- Investment (a poem)
- Amy King, “The Always Song”
- Emily Dickinson, “Escaping backward to perceive…” (867)
- Jane Kenyon, “The Blue Bowl”
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Amen
True, dat.
Nice poetry! I like your style, it has a certain feel to it, a certain mystery.