Not I(sle)
I will not go as I arise
to till another glade
though its clay be good for bean rows
and bees may have it made.
I don’t care to find some peace there–
it won’t happen if we’re there too–
not because we drop things–
but because I’m me, you’re you.
You’re sorry about the singing–
I know–you have explained–
and in bed, you hate that purple glow–
(though I dim my phone when you complain.)
Still, I’ll not go when I arise
for always night and day;
I want your side close-lapping
especially, by the way,
when I’m in the City,
upon the pavement gray,
also when in the country
where linnets’ wings hold sway.
I want your side close-lapping
as we shift limbs old and sore,
even through the fleece and flannel,
to feel your deep heart’s core.
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poem of sorts of some number for April–for Brendan’s wonderful prompt on Real Toads about turning something on its tail, poetic surprise. I fear I’ve cheated a bit here, cribbing from one of my very favorite (and much mined) poems, The Lake Isle of Innisfree by Yeats. Recycling older pic too. (Any port in a storm.) All rights reserved.
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