Yours the earth, the sun burnt hills
and waste---to walk
down hardened paths, where only
thistle's blown;
to leave some seed in rockbound
hearts, in hope
that some will yield a sweeter
crop when grown.Moisture's mine: a cloud to cover
hope from heat,
bathe desert seed with life-
bestowing breath
and give the thirsty tree
refreshment, from
a well that's meant to let it
laugh at death.Our embrace will start the falling
stars to dance
and call the soaring lark to
sing above
of tasting fruit we offer
up in thanks
for having fed on sunlight
in our love.Fall the night, the weary lovers
part in sleep;
the flower fades---it was not
meant to live.
But yet the fragrance fills the
wind to keep
the world awake to wait the
healing kiss
that rain alone can give.-- Mahlon H Smith
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Note:
This poem is from an entry |
Collected Poems
of
Mahlon H Smith
copyright © 2005
all rights reserved