Somehow a thin green shaft
has budded into dandelion, taut set,
soon to burst, later to fling grey chaff
to a strong wind, but for now a potential
not yet blossomed, not yet dispersed.
For this, and for those not being,
and for those made probable by discontinuity,
she walks somewhere,
and by this or any other name
sleeps untroubled in sunlight,
not yet named and not yet slain.
August 26, 1977
|<< Previous||Next >>|