Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The leaves which spilled their gold
Once, when I was more into a more "oracular" mode, a voice within said, "The purpose of poetry is to beget other poetry." I have long believed this to be true, and often reading a poem will inspire me to write a poem on a similar topic, though not the same.
This morning I read a wonderful poem by Mary Oliver, and immediately wrote my own poem which follows below.
The leaves which spilled their gold
What I want mostly
is just to be here
before this tree
with no name,
what does it matter
what species
the flower is,
who cares where
the tall grasses come from
the leaves which
spilled their gold
like a libation
down the mountain side
here in this silence
I claim you,
I am yours.
Dorothy Walters
November 14, 2004
