This Poem was Submitted By: carl a wertman On Date: 2001-04-27 00:39:01 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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The Puddle

A shrouded,             silenced forest, a skyless night, a clearing dimly illuminated by a sleeping west wind      -- and a poet -- seated astride a wooden loom. And from that moving wheel:                            silver                    threads                 of time and life, a symphony of vines moving as though alive, intertwining as though on a trellis, closing to form an inescapable net of melancholy     of joy    of pain. And with each note,              no matter whether pleasure or hurt, a tear falls                   -- a single drop rolling from cheek to ground, there forming a puddle wherein its reason: A lake         of human memory, the sum and all inclusive, whose steep banks even the most stalwart cannot climb; whose waters are a calm and melancholic mixture of joy and disappointment.

Copyright © April 2001 carl a wertman

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