The Poem Of The Afternoon Poem by Shalom Freedman

THE POEM OF THE AFTERNOON

The poem of the afternoon
Long and drawn out
Does not know why it is written
And what its true name is.
It does not ask or answer
Remember or remain
It simply appears
And disappears
As if its writing
Were yet
One more way of
Just being in the world
And passing its light.

The poem of the afternoon
Does not know why it is
Or why it should be

But now that it is here
It looks out at the trees
Through the sun of its pages
And prepares itself to be read and reread
As if someone somewhere
Searches and sees it.