My eyes are weak, weaker than they used to be-
Yet not the blight of a man advanced in years,
Glassy globes clouded over. Eight or ten words
Will do to tell the world this morning,
And the next they will do
Again and just as well, or worse: better.
Narrow is my vision now, but
Small gods separating the
Flowers from the flowers,
Dwelling each realm of the rain-drooped
Garden- didn't we find them once,
We seers wandering blind?
Next Phase.
2 years ago
Why did you take down the beautiful post about cynicism?
ReplyDeleteSadly, I deleted it because I (perhaps irrationally) felt it was embarrassingly sappy- which is precisely the sort of mentality that the post was lashing out against. I regret that, and I'd put it back up, except I did not even save a draft of it. Maybe I'll write again on the topic in the near future; it is one I'm interested in.
ReplyDelete