Aiming high, With big boots Too big to drag across the poetic chess floor,
Never read the greats Never loved and lost like the great lovers Never forged the mind in tempered steel No resolve, No other inkling than pride for scorn
Yet it was this morn, Eyes read with a fresh dawn The braking newness of creation Art as poetry And fluked it no more than a precise preponderance As each word chose itself its order And a profound truth was embellished With the love and care of a depth of many aeons Pared back into a childβs innocent eyes Reflecting providence, grace and wise With a goodly turn of genius That left the mind searching And words begged of in hopes they would lay more Yet none were needed
And never did a loving envy grow so warm in its light