Wednesday, March 23, 2011

How you became who you are.

At last there was a droplet on the window-screen,
Seen in its place and followed
A while.

Observers caught on and eventually
Everyone took note, they looked,
One even wrote:

First came the blink of a different moss-colored eye,
Then a different language was spoken.
The crest rose,

The gloss on the magic of blooming fields froze.

Must you always look back this way?
Can there be no alternative to history
Spoken or

Scientifically imposed?

How gravely pink I have seen you mounting
The hill. It might as well be named for you.

No comments: