A New Metre: Poetry Archive

“. . . so I write.” —II Thessalonians 3:17

All Hands Clapping

Like all hands clapping
for the Great One,
back and forth
the palm fronds clip.

The grass is growing;
I can see it.
Trees are blooming
deep within,
though on their branches, not
a rosy petal blows.

An old one,
with an old one’s crumpled look,
has young man’s strength
somewhere within;
for leaves on what twigs still live
rival the glow of the young.

Old on bark,
and older still inside,
his heart has learned —
as old and wan —
the sap needs fresh within.

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