Missive 3
The date encloses me like Samson in his chains
I protest not the fate I find with groping fingers blind
Though my vision lapses my calling still remains
I did not summon who I love, nor pledged love declined
And will celebrate the wondrous moment hot with heat
The rumpling of the universal sheet
The crescendo and the longing for joy in each new repeat
That makes lamb's rod quivering bleat
There is no tears for joy, the flesh is vain and sees not
How finer things endure. Love is so unloosable a knot.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012
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