Tuesday, February 13, 2007


Your heart it is a wishing-well:
Oak-shadowed, cricket-hymned,
In moss-clad stone, its glory dimmed,
And summer-even smell.

So deep and cool echoes my prayer
And coin-splash far below,
I doubt even the spiders know
The hope I buried there.

Time slumbers or, web-caught as I,
Gives over bootless strife;
Fixed, palsied, stained with flowing life,
In dumbness waits to die.

But should sharp winter come, and rime
Begem the bucket-rope,
Who knows but sunk and frozen hope
May snap and waken time?

1 comment:

amy said...

Excellent! I'm a fan of poetry and have been known to write a few lines of prose myself. This poem spoke to me.