The Light that Knows that It Will Die
Sometimes dawn is aching, golden tears
that shine across a crumpled sky,
a condensation of countless hopes and fears,
a light that knows that it will die.
We rise at morning;
we go our ways
with busy hands
through busy days,
with toil and worry
both remembered and forgot
and busy minds
in distracted thought;
but still a whisper,
like echo and ache,
and not enough time
to do or to make.
Sometimes a dawn is an aching thing,
the human heart shining through human eye,
small and frail; yet it spreads its wings,
this light that knows that it will die.
The Poem Inside
I'm sorry that I cannot tell you
the poem I have inside.
I swear that I have tried before:
I wrote it. The writing lied.
Sometimes with undocile heart
I clouded it with pride.
Sometimes I blew the spark to glow
but still the fire died.
Sometimes I reach out steady hand
but words all run and hide.
I'm sorry that I cannot give you
the poem I have inside.
