I intended to write a poem of time. <br />The celestial seesaw <br />of sun and moon <br />toe-tapping the earth <br />marking their turn, <br />wiping their stardust feet <br />and washing up for dinner. <br /> <br />But the poem is written - <br />perfect verses <br />punctuated by big bangs <br />and falling stars. <br />Days smaller than vowels <br />mark the breathing of time, <br />embers strewn from the fire <br />of universal things. <br />It is written. <br /> <br />Yet poets will huddle <br />at the flames, <br />pencils sharpened, carving words <br />from the crackling timber. <br />They will scribble in vain <br />long after I sleep, <br />long after these words serve <br />as kindling for the hearth.<br /><br />Lori Boulard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-argument-for-sleep/
