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summer harvest
by H.M StevensI do not know how to mark time...
through brimming hours,
and bottle top days,
that spring from memory.
it's a beautiful thing,
this occupation we riddle....
curving inside and out of mental lapses,
and feelings through five hundred moving spaces
For, I cannot witness, the flower loose its wings,
or the sun dip below the earth's sphere-
a measure of exactness--
Not a moment stands
as if lapping waters
cease to sway
when before and again,
under a cold white paste
A shadow hangs on the bough
And a green sprout pokes through
a reaper's cloak
A spotted virgin conceived in three-fourths time
A seedling aged as the elder bristle comb
Without witness to scraped and smothered bark- or piling leaves
Forming flesh and wrinkled fingers
It is human condition:
Life lived in perpetuity of visible division
Not gradation or time transcending 06/30/2005 Posted on 09/13/2005
Copyright © 2024 H.M Stevens
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Scott Cadence on 09/13/05 at 05:32 AM Wow. Its amazing to me that without any real consistant form or stanzas in the poem it still reads with a perfect flow - as if I can hear you actually speaking.
"For, I cannot witness, the flower loose its
wings, or the sun dip below the earth's shere-
a measure of exactness"
I love the image this puts in my mind, the scope is limitless. I would love to see this in a published book, you write very well. brilliant. |
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