by Jim Moore
I have no voice for this--the soft whimsy tune
That plays for all the cradles,
Rests upon the mothers' lips
As if the night were a song--
This pocketful of notes flung far from a galaxy
With slumber on its mind,
And slumber in its heart--
But oh how the weary wander to it.
Posted on 10/17/2007
Copyright © 2019 Jim Moore
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Kathleen Wilson on 10/18/07 at 01:54 AM|
Really beautiful and unusual, I love the strangeness that soothes, and yet bemuses...
|Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 10/18/07 at 03:43 AM|
This goes down easy, but that doesn't make it any less compelling. I liked this.