I dreamt half my life was spent
in wonder, and never suspected.
So immersed in the moment
I forgot I was ever there.
Red-tailed hawk turning
resistance into ecstasy.
The patrolmen joking with the drunk
whose butt seemed glued to the sidewalk.
A coral quince blossom in winter,
pink as a lover's present.
And tilting my bamboo umbrella
against the warm slant
of rain, was I not a happy peasant
crossing the great bay on a bridge that began
who knows when, and will end
who knows when.
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Comments about this poem (View #45 by Thomas Centolella )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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