Should I think further, even longer still, than Frost
As we each linger in the pasture so short a time
Each morning as I rise, yet rising now, still dark
Enfolding mind with the old man’s
Moon-lit light of night
Dreams slide further back with waking mind
I reach but much like leaves in wind
Most seem sure, more, certain, to escape me
Threads so quickly snipped by reality
I try so often for so long to reel-in the meanings
Back into my boat but it is soon so full of today
So full of now, and new words, like fish flopping
All over my best intentions
But it is still night when I awake and poems
Fill my dreaming head
I wear them like old socks to test their meaning
No sense made, or can be made, of this
So once again I gasp, no, grasp for air, as each
Dissolves into that fog awaiting my next
Night’s exhalation when words and meanings
All seem so clear, so perfectly clear
And the poems weave, or, are woven, shimmering
A golden cloth, a tapestry, vestments pure
Impure from life’s soiled living
As I was saying, speaking, asking, in my own way
Should I think, no, linger, longer than Frost
In this field or forest of trees, and words, or
Time-lit-night-dreams rhyming,
Clanging like great bells, or was it a crackling fire
Pulling me up out of those clouded halls again
I try, but cannot reach that deeper meaning