Purity

In the glow of torchlight,

You write,

Hoping to capture

What the transcendentalists could not –

The fleeting river of life,

Into which each of us steps only once,

The sweet fruits of being alive,

And sweeter still, the song love sings,

When She comes

On silent feet

That have been dragged through

The morning’s dew,

And the grass,

And the dirt and the mud and the organic detritus

Of the Garden

But which are altogether

Untouched by their travels,

  And still as pure

As your heart

The night before it was first broken.

 

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