Gifts
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Tell me, Old Man Moon, what's this dance -
this soft Tango you spun upon the stream?
I wonder, did you care to ask its favor?
Did you think to consider its courses,
or did you surmise by its shapely form
that it would be taken by your gleam?
True enough, you dazzle its countenance -
numberless silver stars spin like Heaven ...
bursting, dying in an instant, replaced,
adorning its breast in diamonds, rare.
But perhaps it doesn't abide your gifts,
perhaps it holds secrets best left dim ...
and you waltz with an unwilling partner.
For this stream's reach is boundless,
and this very day, far up its lengths,
there was a tragedy, lives lost in number ...
now it carries on its back, that horror -
broken forms not meant for shimmer,
or the dazzling beauty of your sway ...
staring eyes no longer apt, moon OR sun,
to shine.
Submitted on June 19, 2020
To the "Gifts" Poetry Contest
Anthony Biaanco, Judge & Sponsor.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2019
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