'There are druthers we never will get',
say to the globes of the 'clocks'
whose seeds of Time are designed
for the fine equations of wind.
'There are druthers lost on the roads,'
tell the hovering sparrow,
and the one furring air overhead.
'For Time leaves us all for dead.'
Though pen traces after-shocks,
and the fingers may spasm yet,
find joy in those bird tongues that run
like Heraclitus, wielding a burin.
Swifts glean the air, scythe as they go,
occlusions of clouds minor modes,
and should Time forget me I will her -
carouse summertime down to a slur.
.......................
'Burin '- an engraver's steel cutting tool having the blade ground obliquely to a sharp point.
Written in a quatrain form I put together where the a, b of stanza one is the b, a of stanza three and the same procedure for stanzas two and four. The last two lines of each quatrain are a couplet.
YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
PoetryThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.
