Not enough


Thinking of you, and your beautiful words.

“Not enough!” she said.

Cattle muse over the sound of passing crow,

then bend their serious eyes to a plush of hay.

Images in canvas would explode, if they could.

Hymnals are dented with chorus thumbs, but no echo turns their page.

Wordsworth beat the bells at Tintern Abbey; he grappled with ropes,

clamored past time; he sank into a collage of misdelight.

Give me a yell o yellow flame!

Clap two times and tell: what do you hear

in the grey carcass of night?

Will whisper dare an answer?

Copyright 2009 TAWhite

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