Inner Realm

The mind retains its visions of the past Like humble seeds of memories outspread On barren fields and, though they last Through time, by other hands they’re nursed and fed. Where they were planted, often, we forget Until our thought, inquisitive to see What came of them, recalls the debt Which, once, was owed to it as fee For giving life to their descendants’ line. When, though, the place these seeds were left Is found, at last, not seeds but trees and fine Expanses clothed by forests in the cleft Of mountains fill the view. At once, the mind Is much surprised that what it left behind Has altered all within itself, to blind Pure reason in a labyrinth whose paths can wind And lead awareness where it never knew There was a trail to find. By this device, Our inner realm is made a mystery and few Are those whose sight can peer upon it twice. Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com