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
in the author's journal
dated 9 July 1967
and published here for the first time.

Collected Poems
Mahlon H Smith

copyright 2005
all rights reserved