A Pastorale

It is evening now, and all is well.
The work is done. The kids have gone.
The sun's light, blurred in the haze,
Is beginning to lose its intensity.
Gin in a glass is my faithful companion,
And all that I hear is the conversation
Of birds in branches, bugs in air.
Emptiness issues from fullness, this.
Faith in futility winds, like a vine, binding
Me here on the edge of the wilderness.
No one would notice a hole in my temple,
Except the bugs, who'd have a feast.
This is a day to die.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 13 times
Written on 2011-06-04 at 00:47

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