"this living hand..."
-John Keats
do they pass like clouds through us
the poets who were here before
listless in their later dreaming
sifting through our doors
just one more something to impart
a sonnet's line to darn?
or something's in your eyes
a mist of tears but not your own
come back to an unfinished line.
and so our rhymes disclose a something
missed before by someone else
though we inhale but faintly their lost
perfumes of autumns
rendered up, returned...
invisibly we sip from an ancient cup
we have not earned, taking the same vows
without speaking only feeling
someone's here that I have never known and
here's a refrain of not my name as clear as a golden
reaping where I've never sown;
bourne to an uncertain land
on the locked page broken into, breaking into these
strange sunsettng orchids, nightingale trillings
that I don't understand:
under my living hand.
mary angela douglas 12 october 2014
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