LINES ON A PAGE
These words, though dark etchings on the white page,
Are each in potential little carriers of light;
I thought I'd know better, one of my age,
Yet necessity bore me into this night.
A word is a star, already burned out,
Before it reaches my such fleeting eye;
Then it's mind to which I must lend my shout,
That robs and twists what belongs to the sky.
Like a flock of birds loosening from trees,
These words now scatter as seeds in a field;
Just as roots reach down, the branch is what frees,
And so what sinks deep produces a yield.
You lead me again down your garden path,
But now I smell the flowers, not after-math.
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