“These things write I unto thee . . .” —I Timothy 3:14
In, and all the world about
my frail, haughty being,
a fog is creeping, lover-like,
and soaking from my skin to marrow.
A moss-roughed trunk the mist doth pierce:
a needle green and grey
embroid’ring knots upon the wind,
and leaving trails in water writ.
In moving water, shapes are seen,
and almost-coloured waves.
Rain, in falling, paints on souls
images of hope and want.
Hopes unsprung, from undamped earth
the rain may yet bring forth.
The wants are mine; of rain or drought
alike are coaxed from beds of stone.
A wind may whip the frenzy of my mind
to calm, but not my heart is satisfied.
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