Poetry

Poetry

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There is a certain amount

Of poetry in all subtle things

It’s not just a word laid,

Uncrossing book-bound seams

For rhyme, I say the same-

A fortress of excess,

Rhyming is a game

Waiting for the mind to confess.

The mind can’t help but rhyme

Intermittently-

A stumbling time

Brings soft subtlety.

To gaze at the tree-

The mind fastens metaphors

How it’s leaves, fettered by the wind, flee

Like sand on the tumbling sea floor-

Or the moon- the mind prays

For her blinking eye

And describes how the night arrays

With clouds, the homely sky

The mind does all this-

In a matter of seconds

Without conferring to a list-

No, he simply reckons-

Edit: fixed spelling on “sea”

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