Your life shines
like a lemon
in leaves.
Your life speaks
commandments
through stone.
Your life stands
a sun dial
for puzzled souls.
Your life sings
a descant
to the planet's groan.
Your life
wrapped in sacking
pulses on.
Your life goes
where it goes
and has not gone:
A sweet-sour
birth-day
gift for you alone.
(For Diana Neutze on her 70th birthday, bitterly afflicted with MS and its complications, and still finding poetry in the garden.)
Monday, March 9, 2009
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