Light splashed this morning <br />on the shell-pink anemones <br />swaying on their tall stems; <br />down blue-spiked veronica <br />light flowed in rivulets <br />over the humps of the honeybees; <br />this morning I saw light kiss <br />the silk of the roses <br />in their second flowering, <br />my late bloomers <br />flushed with their brandy. <br />A curious gladness shook me. <br />So I have shut the doors of my house, <br />so I have trudged downstairs to my cell, <br />so I am sitting in semi-dark <br />hunched over my desk <br />with nothing for a view <br />to tempt me <br />but a bloated compost heap, <br />steamy old stinkpile, <br />under my window; <br />and I pick my notebook up <br />and I start to read aloud <br />the still-wet words I scribbled <br />on the blotted page: <br />"Light splashed . . ." <br /> <br />I can scarcely wait till tomorrow <br />when a new life begins for me, <br />as it does each day, <br />as it does each day.<br /><br />Stanley Kunitz<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-round/
