Lord that I may not squander these Saturday graces
caught in the dream of dreaming only
like faint stars in the spiraling nebulaes
their own motion deferred
these fleeting days like fleeing birds
oh let me net without regret and sighing
let me awake early or late
with all my heart vying to hear
your music of fine beginnings
never thinking of the endings
fountainhead, headwaters shine
and beckon again, this time
though it grows late
winter does not on autumn wait
may I arise
seeking lost beauty my enterprise
and chronicle it all
in small handwriting
green ink upon the strand.
the last wave home.
mary angela douglas 12 november 2022
No comments:
Post a Comment