This dazzle dances in the unstill eye,
a wandering road of light to contemplate,
to those who rise so early or too late
that sequences of thought must pass them by.
A sound-tracked day its silences encodes,
and let attention stray from noisy voice,
a drifter slips by all those doors of choice
emerging safe on long-untraveled roads.
The vegetation of a deep content
out-rivals laziness, but it's not chained
to inaction, synapses to circumvent;
from its oblivion springs fresh wholesomeness:-
snowdrops brushed with winter sun, sky-strained,
sweet in themselves, with nothing to address.
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PoetryIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
