Is it only because we use words to get at meaning
that our words may become the medium of our tale?
what if grief is a kind of inverted awe? is keening
laughter inside-out? whereas when we allow words fail
do we mean our feelings exceed our frame of reference?
or do we but vaguely confess verbal inability?
words of saints & masters stealthily win our deference
do they hold a secret of subtlety & fragility?
or a thing more weighty than gold more shining than flame?
and what of the Silent Master? who will explain how
even he packs words? there's gunpowder in that name!
if an A-bomb blasts does one-fourth really remain while
in a trice three-fourths of a never-was world are gone?
could a novel horizon limn unambiguous dawn?
1 comment:
Dear David,
You weave light ambiguity with deep explosives in this richly diverse sonnet; mirroring Dear Margaret.'s presence.
This beautiful creation meanders through a heart felt journey. Margaret is undoubtedly honored to receive this beautiful gift.
Love how you shine your focused light in tiny crevices that would otherwise go undetected.
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