What little joy I see in myself
or all that surrounds me
Only smooth, round stones
laid across the desert
interesting, passionless, dry and intelligent
kingdoms quiver in the air, like heat
to be plucked by the choosers hand, and now I do not
hesitate, but walk down this lane and that,
plucking as though master of this orchard
testing the fruit of many trees
and master I am - yet where is joy?
Perhaps joy has many faces
and this is a time of sure
movement and weighted delivery
perhaps joy is grave today
a companion in armor who guards the path
that I may look in
one direction
-mjp
1 comment:
I Love this poem! The picture is very powerful as well. "Twenty-two dwarves took turns doing one-hand handstands on a rug."
-Bugsy-
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