What does it mean when our eyes betray us,
when our hearts leap up at a misread shadow?
Are there yet roads down which we can travel
to set-aside fields of our hearts that lie fallow?
Shadows will come to the daylight denier;
a shadow looms over to humble our pride;
shadows tell us the night has our measure:
it's the moon and the stars will abide.
Tell me there are still virgin forests;
tell me they're places that we've yet to go
where eyes can be sated on dazzling newness
and we'll not be waylaid by a shadow.
What does it mean when our eyes betray us,
when our hearts leap up at a misread shadow?
Are there yet roads down which we can travel
to set-aside fields of our hearts that lie fallow?
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PuisiIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
