||[Jul. 31st, 2016|08:48 pm]
The day has not appalled me. The bearable heat reminded me of those times I would have reveled in it. But that was when the ocean was never too far away. Today it was streams and rivers I thought of, though by now they are shrunken and lacking the proper chill, unlike the boundless sea that refreshes itself with a thirst always quenched. I smelled the heat and the hint of pine it carried, and once home from shopping sat on the porch and felt it reaching into the shade to grasp me. Come back, come back to the time you loved me. But only my thoughts could travel there. My skin tolerated the day, and waited for the cool evening to give its love. |
by William Meredith
Touching your goodness, I am like a man
Who turns a letter over in his hand
And you might think this was because the hand
Was unfamiliar but, truth is, the man
Has never had a letter from anyone;
And now he is both afraid of what it means
And ashamed because he has no other means
To find out what it says than to ask someone.
His uncle could have left the farm to him,
Or his parents died before he sent them word,
Or the dark girl changed and want him for beloved.
Afraid and letter-proud, he keeps it with him.
What would you call his feeling for the words
That keep him rich and orphaned and beloved?