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Saturday, April 07, 2007

We Forget at Times

These are my eyes,

I create my own sun, the yellow

hill of daffodils,
the spill of light on green fields
below where leaping lambs are content to play.

I listen for some inspiration,
for a god to say something in the scene,
for a shape to appear out of clouds
and say, "It is I!"

Perhaps my eyes see God,
they soak up the heart felt whispers
of a world no longer looking.

Eyes see the scene,
the pink cherry blossoms,
the sky-blue splashes of colour
the red blush of leaves.

we forget at times

that we are surrounded by life,
by this invisible force,
whether it be God or life,
we can still use our eyes
to look at life and the painting
it splashes down on our
feelings, healing those who search
for more than drab days of living alone.

1 comment:

P. B. Adams said...

I like the first four lines of this very much. I like the notion that you're playing around with but unless I'm missing something, you abandoned the thought. To me at least, the best and freshest part of this ends with "the spill of light on green fields".

The rest seems said before far to often, Hopkins springs to mind. You have a fresh way of putting an interesting idea. Run with it my friend.

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