I do not write words but metaphors
Which are akin to God
And new minted things
Which fly like sparks from an anvil
And are coins to buy a seat in the world to come
And so with trepidation
They weld earth and sky
And I, a minor poet,
Wish to indicate
That poetry is shorthand
Both intellectual and emotional
And on that note I end my poem.
I remember pinkfire azaleas
And the dogwood’s floating white
And the warm and slanting sunbeams
of the living Virginia light.
Try to write! And I tried to rise
Still the clogs were on my feet
And the wings of depressed angels
About my downcast eyebrows beat
Sheila came and I not ready
So I lost my happinesses
Mystic moons her twin blue eyes
Amid the cascade of her tresses.
Virginia, speak of me softly then
Your time with me then cherish
I keep with me your memory
Until at last I perish.