I intended to write a poem of time.
The celestial seesaw
of sun and moon
toe-tapping the earth
marking their turn,
wiping their stardust feet
and washing up for dinner.
But the poem is written -
perfect verses
punctuated by big bangs
and falling stars.
Days smaller than vowels
mark the breathing of time,
embers strewn from the fire
of universal things.
It is written.
Yet poets will huddle
at the flames,
pencils sharpened, carving words
from the crackling timber.
They will scribble in vain
long after I sleep,
long after these words serve
as kindling for the hearth.
Lori Boulard
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-argument-for-sleep/
