The Poet's Word

Sway, the blades of green —
Cascade, in rustling tones,
Mistrals glide o'er glades,
O'er sands and o'er stones.
But whence the ghost depart?
What calls the whistling moans?
Their pitch dances on the drums,
Sweet warbling rings ear bones,
In song.

Therein — the orbital rounds,
Oscillate atoms and spheres,
That move the airy planes,
Through space and atmospheres,
Conjures zephyrs from the air —
In gales or in gusts appears —
Nobles or peasants at prayer,
Are moved in sacred fears,
In awe.

And the waters rise and fall,
At the whimsy of the moon,
And the paradox of parentage,
But by the mercy of each swoon,
There would be nor I, nor thou,
Nor beauty unfurling a cocoon.
But only for the Poet's word,
A cosmos would ne'er be hewn,
In love.

Ardent

That wind, that dust, that water,
Converge within cells and souls,
Flesh and fire, like ardent coals,
Each both infuse and abutter,
And reveal.

And in the glisten in the eye,
And the crease within the cheek,
There the I and Thou bespeak,
As the substance within the sigh,
Reveals.

In pain, and water, and blood,
Embers kindle in infant flame,
And the holy calling of a name,
The cherished and ardent bud,
Reveals.

Though every flame will flicker,
Short on fuel, with many a douse,
Yet with kindred stars will rouse,
And will again blaze the quicker,
and reveal,

The burning,
The living,
Ardent.