In the Before Time
In the before time, my poem an inkling only,
Something nags at me to look more deeply
Lest I pen a shallow rhyme when I might
Have brought a truth, untold, to light.
In the before time, the seed not taken to root,
And I the thumbless gardener in the absolute
Am left with no indication of direction
In spite of my digging and cultivation.
In the before time, I turned to my literary muses,
Dickinson and Whitman, in hopes a word infuses
My child that it may live its life in the way it should
And I, knowing in my poethood, did all I could.
Copyright 2021 Paul Thomson
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