Count
I count you, that the day were first, thee last,
as in repaired diplomacy's repast.
A building up of time - restoring, chaste
or in contempt of cruelty, take fast.
I count thee - as tomorrow's faith outclassed
does blindly look for reason now surpassed.
I count thee, for that love not change its bast,
but counts - the sun, the moon, the ever last.
And counting ...feels as one in spacious massed!
Copyright © Paula Larson | Year Posted 2005
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