Who saves a summer saint too often burned
When sermons yellow like the leaves of fall?
My mind dismisses everything I learned;
When winter comes my faith forgets it all.
I need a word to last throughout the years;
Three months are not enough to savor spring,
And blossoming flowers are sure to wane.
My plummeting desires are now fears;
Like falling suns they mange white doves’ wings
And char the angels’ mouths so they don’t sing.
There is no word to loiter in my veins.
Shawn R. Jones
(Womb Rain, Finishing Line Press, 2008)
This is beautiful poignant and vivid. Love the imagery
Thank you, Boomie, and good morning to you : )
I like this poem so much because when read it pretty much exemplifies that you are a sure enough writer. It erases all doubt. It answers the question, “Can she write?” It still takes me back to the black and white composition book where you scribed your first poems on the floor at one of my board meetings. I never predicted an author in you. It is a wonderful happening.
I cannot thank you enough for a wonderful foundation. I wish you would consider blogging. There are wonderful writers on here who are also great people. You will enjoy it much more than fb : )
I am considering your suggestion.