every word I try to form,
imprint on the crystal air
seems to fall a step behind
in a chord born otherwhere
though I, snowbanked, sigh and strive
once again the note to pluck
still, in silver it abides
far from all this mire and muck.
still I play invisible music
still I paint invisible songs
knowing that the Lord will lead them
to the green place they belong.
mary angela douglas 12 november 2023
No comments:
Post a Comment