Friday, November 15, 2013



Thick and cold
November gray


That’s a difficult word,
One that is not often heard;
Lack of things means you’ve not prospered,
That abundance has been deferred.
Perhaps some tragedy has occurred.
There must be some kind of explanation;
An ongoing rationalization
For a psychological repression?
That it’s attractive is beyond conception,
It can’t be voluntary renunciation.

There is beauty in the sight of a leafless tree,
A distant solo flute’s exquisite melody,
In a room a single book that is often read,
A few words overheard that a stranger once said,
A walk along the beach when the ocean is calm,
The transcendental presence that glows in a Psalm
That opens a door that allows us to perceive
Waves of vast spaciousness from a limitless sea.

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