Lines Of Magnificent Surrender Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Prettily the light is winnowed by the green
Fingers of the pine,

As if sorting out the empirical yarns from the
Hypothetical ether, stealing her teases,

When whipped about by the tizzied wind,
Frantically lost in warm forests of May,

Thus, the earth is separated from the sky
By a blue line clear as a seam following the
Hem of Spartan alders,

Their roots the tuberous axes of persistent time,
Wheedling into the enjambment of quartz,
Showing the silver mouthed tussle,

And the effluvious drool from the earth’s womb,
All of those words we meant to say,
Never heard but in the spurious roofs of swaying confusion,

A chorus of pretty soldiers queuing into the green country,
For reasons to grow their belief,
As the dyed rivers dwindle in scribbling lines of magnificent surrender.