In the Grace
Dawn in the grace of the poem
Have I been washed in dew
Showering now in the merest blue
Of aurora being born to bright
Night is done and my song I’ve sung
A shred of my soul I’ve loosed
Of love illumined in the birth
So to rest I go
Stained my hands by the poems’ hold
I knew for a moment in my still palm
As to the newborn world it flew
Leaving in my heart
Spellbound in the dawning hue
The wonders calm and filled of you
July 25, 1995
I remember my father being quite nocturnal. He would sleep almost the entire day, emerging in the early evening to rant about this-or-that. Possibly hungover. If ever I awoke in the middle of the night, I was almost guaranteed to find him awake in his dim-lit room, chain smoking and hunched over his typewriter, punching the keys individually one at a time with his index fingers. Precise. Meticulous. He would mull over each individual line of his poems, and then edit, tweak and retype a final copy.
About Desmond and Poems Unrequited.
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