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Sunniest Days
Dogged In the pursuit of truth
Science writes text with bone dead words
Worse parched than extra dry vermouth
Oft as tasty as rancid curds.
Keeping terms tight as verbal shields
Description is the task of prose,
The draft horse of the science fields,
That ploughs grounds where ignorance grows.
It plants the seeds of truth in rows
Which may produce some bitter yields.
I seek to learn what is real
But much prefer what I can feel.
The sun, I read, moves in ellipse
Joining earth and moon in eclipse.
Dry equations scribe orbits hips
But lack the power of poets’ lips.
I feel things of meaning to me
In robust words of poetry.
Free of parallax’ precision
Of syzygy and equation.
The sun plunges to nightly swim
Bathing deep in a crimson sea
Fringed by cumulous atoll rim
As starry friends gaze silently
Watching through the dark veil of night
Until sun splashes up the dawn
Raising up night’s curtain to light
As friends fade out without a yawn.
Copyright ©
David Drowley
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