DR (June 16,1941 / Chicago, Illinois)


I face the wind;
Currents of time that score my brow
With textured text;

Memories that run
Downstream toward falls that plunge headlong
Into inkwells of darkness.

But with stained hands,
And thoughts once fought, I break the surface
Of blackness to light.

Where each stroke I take
Reduces life’s liquid to a mist, as it changes
From text to thought.

And with my arms quiet,
Devoid of the motion that once pushed at rivers,
I bathe in the now still wind.

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Comments (1)

Nice metaphor. Great allegory! Lovely poem!