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Saturday, December 12, 2009

The Threshold of Bright Things

I spoke to you
of the wandering night:
whether you had ever seen
how the colours quiet,
or noises hush
like children listening
to stories of fright
on Halloween as it passes;

when I really wanted
to tell you how
the doubting dark
had turned bright
when I looked at you,
knowing I had found
what I had searched for
in all my life's caresses:

but I spoke to you
of other miracles instead,
of the colours
the day brings to bed;
of the blue of the sea
under a summer sun,
the green of the grass
in fields left undone,

autumnal leaves crackling,
blazing red and yellow
as sunlight embers die
in the hearth of the sky,
or seeing less, but understanding
more in shades of grey;
and standing there, where no love
had a better guide

lost in your beauty's way,
in your eyes, in your grace,
standing at the threshold
of all these bright things
and touching your face,
I wanted to tell you
so much, that I knew
of such miracles, too.

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