In The Shadow Of Dudley Mountain Poem by S. R. Lavin

Desire. Sunlight. Soft wind. Written in the morning.



Life is a precious gift and not to be wasted.



In the house, once home to intelligent women,

surrounded by forest, ravines, feral creatures

and a thousand books



a lonely man already destitute



his wife already buried many years ago and far away

in a land he could never call his own



where he was went forward

creating a future



which would belong to those who got there



how many books there were to read

the search for the meaning of transient nature

and impudent knowledge or

transient knowledge and impudent nature.



I can never be less or more

than free to sift a meaning

from what is known

and what no one knows.



I write. I read. I live another day.