a poem: “...waiting on the Pentecost”
Ordinarily I don’t publish so much poetry at Theoria-press, and instead try to provide mostly essays with an odd poem or sonnet occasionally interspersed among them. But the Muse’s visits have outstripped my ability to keep pace with prose pieces so readers who prefer essays should peruse the archives of this site, which are replete with them.
HANDS I have to keep me from reaching you
eyes I have to keep me from seeing through
the veil that distance casts before your face
thought I have to remind me of the grace
that faded with the dying light of day
reminding me that nothing gold can stay
and so disposed I shut my door to sleep,
resolved my splendid solitude to keep
to give myself away to dreams—but you
at my window pane came streaming through
the Moon’s proud face will never use the door
but bears the promise my vision to restore
I behold you now, before me, here
I raise my eyes and watch you disappear,
and all my choicest words to you are lost
they flee like tiny flowers in the frost
and I’m left waiting on the Pentecost.
