Tuesday, August 24, 2004
For Rilke
How often you have come at evening
or late afternoon
caressing our cheeks, our ears, silently
as if with long stemmed blossoms
of invisible flowers.
How many times
we have sensed your tentative presence
lingering nearby,
a shadowy outline
lounging in the doorway,
an almost discernable form.
Do you walk through
our dreams at night
planting verses
the way a gardener
might fling seeds
into the rich furrows of glistening earth?
Do you wait expectant somewhere
for new shoots to rise,
fresh bloomings to spring forth,
more tokens of the ever unfolding?
copyright, Dorothy Walters
or late afternoon
caressing our cheeks, our ears, silently
as if with long stemmed blossoms
of invisible flowers.
How many times
we have sensed your tentative presence
lingering nearby,
a shadowy outline
lounging in the doorway,
an almost discernable form.
Do you walk through
our dreams at night
planting verses
the way a gardener
might fling seeds
into the rich furrows of glistening earth?
Do you wait expectant somewhere
for new shoots to rise,
fresh bloomings to spring forth,
more tokens of the ever unfolding?
copyright, Dorothy Walters
