Dumb in a numb tree, wailing gaze,
glancing glad and mournfully, afire and tired,
she falls asleep: the furnace of her eyes
refracts, a million-fold, the cosmic fire.
If she is two, her dream-half falls awake,
finding one she lost in a rainbow's eye,
the dewy pupil of a sleeping flower,
ensphered like evening's sun in eyes of rain
and raining dreams and pools
the rain grows trees.
Night writes her book in the words of day
and after dreams her poetry awakes:
a drab aphasiac in this world of words.
Posted by gledwoodpoet
at 4:23 PM GMT
Updated: Thursday, 11 January 2007 4:35 PM GMT
