Would my words work like yours do,
to leave their fields of honey
to rest in the gift of an envelope,
to be awakened again and again
by the envelope's opening window. . .
Resting horizontal, untouched, the crepuscule’s dust
Makes hidden the morning dusk:
The housetops, utility lines and tree heads still unpencilled,
Their canvas, a window's view, unframed, incomplete.
And in dusky folds the newspaper knocks,
Replete in the day's long-spun columns.
One follows the morning, it sumptuous quiet,
Its view all-framed, its turning leaves.
And a comic strip, overlooked, steps out of place:
A coconut drops, and the jocose sun
Has trampled the foliage, the hiding ways,
Where the sound of crushed leafage is a trail of boyhood times.
You feel in the mist of a fairy tale:
The standing sky turns its leaves; the well oiled sun;
The clouds sail like clouds on a lake;
And somewhere, a building, breathless, moves one atlas mile.
One feels the Muse,
The hidden sigh…write it, write…
And you entitle your verse
“Morning’s fall ” or “morning paper”
There in the pane, there is a reflection sitting,
A private moment, its divine texture.
And the distant sound of crushed leaves,
A trail of disavoweled feelings.
And the eye reverently touches the morning’s poise:
The simple moment, the enchantment, its enchased insignificance.
the hush of harmonized ebony;
but to hour's call
the Muse has not come...
By the wax-flooded bowl,
the dusty lamp, the books,
I open a tome hoping to kindle
the kindred heart of the Muse...
I close the tome.
Listen: I wish to share in the hour's silence
the silence in poetry:
The attentive blackness of closed eyes,
the hush of harmonized ebony...