A weekend poem

.

On the slate of the sky, a cold spark in your eye

What is more glorious than the moon?

Perhaps the cooing of a loon

calm, melodic in the cool mist that cloaks the water

Or, even more, the dancing of the blind man’s

daughter

For though neither the call

nor the girl are seen,

you don’t have to view Joy

to know what it means

.

poem by me. It’s a contemplative evening. :-)

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