Please hold my hand if I begin to sway;
I might not get up once I lose my feet.
The light has thrown a cant under the street,
dazzled me silly as a popinjay.
There's something in the motion of the trees
that sets me spinning--whispers in the creak
of branches. Sibilant leaves leave me weak
and breathless, balancing on liquid knees.
Things underneath my feet are not so strong
here at the last as I once thought they were.
The meadows buckle, hills roll like the sea,
and I am lost here. The stones are tearing free
and drifting at our heads. What can't endure
will float away; what can, flew all along.
1 comment:
Another quasi-Petrarchan, and very well done. I think I like this as well as any you have written. Mysterious but affecting. Is the end of the world being described, or one person's death? No matter. The last line sings.
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