blithe and lithe, the choice that voices make
but never take in forsaken remembrances.
beauty defined, refined and in time, a prime
and perfect fabric of dreams and memory.
I hope, I pray, to walk with you yet a ways,
to see you evolve and the world revolve
around you, by your own remarkable essence.
your presence fills me with wonder and I am drunk
of the possibilities of a life I had given up,
convinced there was no one or nothing left
to blind my pain, to find my waning will
and fill me with honey and ambrosia and nectar
the likes of which Aphrodite would envy.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
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Reviews of "White Sunday 122: blithe"
Reviewed by s g (Reader)
Reviewed on February 2, 2011
Hello William, I have read many of your poems and I must confess I've come to an abrupt halt reading your work. This poem, as well many of the others are exceptional. I do hope to see your work in book form. I'd buy it! You've talent galore. Susan
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