Keith O.J. Hunt Poet Rhyme

Where Truth Makes Its Home

It was so long ago,

   when I had first gazed upon the snow,

   and heard the western wind blow ----
  
   to sing again in some unknown tongue,

Tis in this time of old I feel so young;

   of these things so fresh

   and never spent,

   where truth makes its home


That the old sky is cold and gray,

   in the wetted eve of end day;

   the spindly fingers of trees
  
   jutted and naked do not pretend

   as if praying to wisdom do they lend ----


Spirits of night and snow,

   I am ancient in birth,

   where truth makes its home

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Charmaine Chircop March 15, 2014 at 4:23 PM Amazing and Outstanding poem..I read your last post too..Excellent Keith O.J. Hunt March 15, 2014 at 9:57 PM We both know your taste is impeccable! I should be so honored, you make me wanna write and write..... (thanks wonderful)