Possible
Of Nature she dreams
of delicate things, fine silver rings,
sketches of Springs.
How hot her eyes in
lurid living dream,
capturing
impossibility,
and this train and tunnel,
naturally,
not sad, nor are they bad at all.
Often they travel, hot, in her head
and in her heart,
awakening with a cork blown start,
the guest of house, courageous
chest, bathed and swathed
in sheets of lead.
How does he dream,
it seems an impossible thing.
Copyright © Margot Weidemann | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment