The Thinking Poet


Because We So Soon Forget
Whatever ills the hours have brought
To cause a scowl at birth,
This now is perfect.
This moment in May must surely match
All that Godís eternity can bring.
To live for this brief breath alone
Is worth the grizzled grief of time.

We should, whilst the wheel of destiny turns,
Rest and see, as God saw on Creationís seventh day,
This Earth;
And know that it is good.

Behold, it is very good;
To see the bough so burdened with sweet may
That leaves are shamed and seem to hide away;
To see the pansy, pussy-faced,
Nodding in the sun;
The bronzed wisteria silently weaving;
Mysterious blue, the blossom hangs like grapes.

The glory is manifold,
Too intense to embrace;
Each flower becomes a universe,
Each petalled-place, a world.
And blue, blue, all over blue sky,
Smooth velvet to display the clustered leaf.

This would have seemed beyond belief
When hoar-frost breath was muttering of death,
And wood was stripped,
And black-grit seed still slept;
Before the first Creation-day had stirred.

Because we soon forget,
May comes to remind us of miracles.