In a message dated 9/7/01 9:39:03 GMT Daylight Time, [log in to unmask] writes:
On a day such as this
with its sides torn out moaning
for the wind to return
and tend its ragged wound
on such a day
to recover gently the buried hyacinths
swollen with ten seasons
and the little ones
gathering a bowl of unwashed moons
is to do what the wind cannot bring itself to do
have just been catching up on reading through the list emails out of a busy
week. Found myself reading and rereading this little poem - it has a
combination of simplicity, and richness of language/association that I aspire
to
thanks for posting it
Liz
