In a message dated 04/05/2004 6:56:12 AM Central Daylight Time,
[log in to unmask] writes:
<< Ripples
the light falls upon real objects now. Here are knives and forks. The world
is displayed, and we too, so that we can talk.
Virginia Woolf
Language laps like water against its banks.
Words that had lain dormant stir
from their muddy bed, lift their crests
and raise ripples on the surface.
They debouch into this wide, slow scene
where light coruscates through willow leaves
and over the aureate river.
A boat glides out from under the bridge,
filled with a massive repose, and brushes
through a crepitant curtain of branches
into the heliotropic shade.
Through foliage some light leaks
that also shines on ancient turf
and porous, gravid buildings
while under the arches, darkness seems
almost as solid as stone
and the river murmurs something as it passes,
`Yes, these things are here, they are realī.
Mike >>
This is a fine poem, Mike. I don't think there is much I can say that would
make a difference, not even any nits. Isn't language wonderful? Ripples and
ripples of it. Sue
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