Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

Daughter of my Dearest,

Daughter of my Dearest,

Take my hand as night has fallen
and yesterday afternoons torrents have cleared
the ways are you near when I come bye
open your eyes.

Freshly planted in ponds they come
traces of new habitation,
the red wing black bird ties each together
the cat tails brown once green known as any writer
could as the male sings the evening news in song
and restores
each white washed line of your letters in this your book.

and More as mornings fresh sprinkled dew
upon thy brow a hint of comets trails of golden dust
sprinkled over the married line of dawn from dusk
and as oil marks made full to receed on a lamp stand
open windows bring it to view
a brighter tint the yellow sun of your new early dawn.

I look on from afar
daring naught
but I do asking of any news of the ruins
concerning Sylvia
their is your lovely habitant;
but too what avail
I can but feed my questions to crows upon rocks,
it is that I am, but from you.
and I am!
But who are you for they know only naught to answer me
and only by you
do they echo the land as Ariel looks on is it stark?

19 June 2010

Submitted: Saturday, June 19, 2010
Edited: Saturday, June 19, 2010

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