Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Blown Asters

When the dynasty of my future comes,
Fair with its beauty, fresh with its time,
I will look back, bedecked, knowing I chose
What was the right, and never chose the wrong.
But deep in my soul I will feel the pull,
Of a thing half sacred and sublime,
Slumbering like the bloom of asters
When the snow is gone, and the spring is young.
I picked the freshest fruit on the bending bough,
The thorns I could not pass, I left,
Only because I was vulnerable to loss,
Because I never knew, nor even know now.
The world around me said, “You never shall be,
But always must come to our regular path,
Ruined gardens are the deaths of many a girl
But not what your innocent feet should allow.”
The paths of my life are not in disarray,
They range themselves in harmony and joy;
I almost feel a sense of pride at times
For my glittering sunlight, like fair alloy.
Yet sometimes when the dawn on golden cobbles wakes,
There is a shimmer of the days when it was near;
A peasant in a coat of tatters was my king,
Years by years that never were my years.

No comments:

Post a Comment