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Earth
The Earth is
not sad.
It does not
mourn
Does not
remember
Last year’s
fruit
For which we
grieve.
Does not
regard the
Sparrow’s fall
Nor the call
of a lark
Which tempts
us.
It knows death
without sin.
Birth without
hope.
Imposes rules.
Permits some
variations.
Endures
especially the sadness
That we bring
to the land.
Forest
What I had wanted,
Once we had come so far.
Was to go to the forest
And in that air that is nowhere more
sweet
To forget our names and our faces.
.
There to defy defining voices
Which tell us who we are.
In that forest to be the unnamed
pines.
Silent and shallow rooted,
un-answering
To voices that call us back to our
places
That call us back to our names.
Harold Lorin has published
numerous books and articles in Computer Technology and Science. He
lives primarily in New York City and travels extensively for work
and pleasure. Fiction has been published on line at seismicfish.com
and nicestories.com. Poetry at bluehouse.com (August and October
2004) and poeticdiversity.com (November 2004.)
Contact
Harold Lorin |
