Do Not Open
How was love? It endured.
It was the thing I doubted least
until I doubted doubt itself.
Yes, there are paths out of
the land of Anhedonia --
watching a leaf pirhouette
in a charitable breeze,
caressing a shoot of an
infant hydrangea rooted
in summer's soft loam of hope,
scurrying frantic and harried
over obfuscating work like ants
beneath an old lifted brick,
setting pen to paper, -- or simply
resting a heavy head upon soft down
a sign on the door commanding
Do not open Until
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Regis
to be disturbed. And the poem--I think it's damn near perfect the
way it is. Such an intelligent write. What else? And: rooted in summer's soft loam of hope...A beautiful line. -gene.
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.