Monday, 11 July 2011

In Archibald MacLeash's breast pocket

Poetry is like a flower:
its conditions for growth are
invisible perfections
and its season lasts
only so an hour.

Poetry sweeps the air
in searching for the sun
but often finds
only dust.

A ragged wound
in pain is spun,
its petals blossom
out and red.

Poetry is like a flower
bled of its essence,
yet still it stands,
its story to shower.

Poetry is a flower, a flower
only to show;
to tell would be impossible:
it has no mouth, only hands

and to touch
is to know.

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