Through Unmarked Time

The poem never produces the experience of poetry.  The poem is only ever produced by such an experience.  When I experience poetry while reading the poem, I do not experience the poetry of the poem that I am reading.  I experience the poetry of the poem that needs to be written through me.  In this way, poem calls to poem, poetry to poetry, however poorly I may accomplish the poem that is required of me.

Through Unmarked Time

She paused on the topmost stair, wonderingly,
as if she had found, without expectation,
a place preordained for her,
and the sun dappling through the cedars,
and the lake breeze stirring her clothing,
seemed to welcome her like a long expected mistress,
and she turned back toward the sun,
eyes closed and face lifted,
innocent of the face also lifted to her,
the gaze that passed over her
like the sun and like the breeze,
and her pause grew to a waiting,
and his waiting to a stillness,
and the sun’s stillness to an eternity,
a caress through unmarked time.