The Mole Can't Imagine What it's Like to be a Bird

The evening's passing pleasantly enough.
The wind has died. The sinking sun has set
Aflame the river and the oxbow lake that rudely
Holds the farmer's field. My love's not here.
I'm used to that, and, as I gaze out, more or less
Content to have been left alone, I realize that
I'm adept at understanding suffering, and I
Can write about it even when it has no hold
On me, but joy's a feeling I don't know. It's
Something I cannot describe, and, so, despite
The lovely weather and the pleasant scenery,
And my too-rare, too-brief contentment,
I will write of sorrow, as it's mostly what
I feel.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 234 times
Written on 2019-04-14 at 02:04

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