Have I been thinking too much or too often?

What lingers there that I hope to see?

Or is it just the breath of autumn’s near return

That whispers a certain melancholy in me?

 

As summer days grow ever shorter,

Though the furnace heat rises all the while,

My mind is looking for something to spark to,

A word, an image, the innocence within a smile.

 

“A poem, oh no, I just can’t stand them,”

Nettie calls to me from the other room.

“They’re so confusing and so self-centered,

not to mention how they drip with painted gloom.”

 

Yes, yes, I know, I know; and yet they fashion

In a phrase a world outside the scope of time.

Is it really so quaint, so curious, and so foolish

To jot down words that choose themselves to rhyme?

 

Somehow my mood is lifted from the shadows

As words transform to stanzas on a page.

And though I wouldn’t say the sky is cloudless,

I believe again that evening must precede the day.

 

So pardon these few lines of rhyme and meter,

That at their best are feeble though sincere.

Think instead not of how they say it, but rather

Of the simple meaning that’s engendered here.

 

Sunrise Evening Day

 

 

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