| SOUNDINGS
What is the pith of days that gives them worth? Is it the emerald green of an ashtray Dazzled by a falling sun's moted ray, Or the faint lingering light in the birth Of evening when shadows move and the sky's gray Meets the roseate flower of setting day? Is it this, or a beauty of any choice? The jewel of loveliness is simply told. It streaks the sky in a bird's tender flight, Touches a window in the sun's parting hold--, And flashes like fire through the body's bright Mesh of veins to leave an exquisite mold On the soft tablet of or hidden sight. David Napolin |