Graspings #11

Rare and few are those moments of pure joy;
yellow as white, white as blue, certain
accomplishments, certain cottony details in our century
of over-indulged and under-nourished, flashlight lives.
More often,
suddenly in the dark,
in our solitude,
or under lights,
we recollect such radiating memories. Our
bodies sigh; souls writhe in desire.

We miss so much, because you contain so much,
dear small flower on the sun in our eyes,
when did you lose to tears, to ennui?
And if we were to remember how it was that
we learned to feel you, by being unable
to name you anything other than joy,
would that make things full
again? The same fullness as before?

Never, it seems.
Never in the face of yesterdays.


©hRj 2007