David R. Morgan
Waiting
If you look with good enough binoculars
You’ll find Hope in Hope’s Despair dancing in the distance.
I hoped I could dance along with light feet
But flowers sprang between my toes tripping me up.
The flowers of life have blood at their roots;
Shoots springing from daily wounds.
Daily wounds form the final song we hear alone,
As ordinary washing waves in fragrant folds
Moving in and out of friendly evening,
Wafting silently forever five minutes from Summer.
Waiting for the Ferryman, minutes mock the time left,
As blossoms blow from old trees.
Old trees tock time in a dream of clocks;
I feel the vague melancholy of death-
A Father’s voice, a Mother’s calm; a gate opening
Onto a land where ghosts live between two realities.
In a single tear a whole life swims,
Crowding the already crowded air.
You’ll find Hope in Hope’s Despair dancing in the distance.
I hoped I could dance along with light feet
But flowers sprang between my toes tripping me up.
The flowers of life have blood at their roots;
Shoots springing from daily wounds.
Daily wounds form the final song we hear alone,
As ordinary washing waves in fragrant folds
Moving in and out of friendly evening,
Wafting silently forever five minutes from Summer.
Waiting for the Ferryman, minutes mock the time left,
As blossoms blow from old trees.
Old trees tock time in a dream of clocks;
I feel the vague melancholy of death-
A Father’s voice, a Mother’s calm; a gate opening
Onto a land where ghosts live between two realities.
In a single tear a whole life swims,
Crowding the already crowded air.
Page(s) 30
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