If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away---Henry David Thoreau

Saturday, January 31, 2009

Insubstantial: a poem by Leo Hartshorn

Light streams
through my lazy window
shafts of white
residue of incense smoke
mixed with sunshine
As real as
the wooden legs
that hold up my desk
or the jacket draped over
my morning shoulders

But I cannot put weight
upon smoke or light
or wear them to town
as insubstantial clothing

These luminous intruders
into my atmosphere
are just there to
the glittering specks of dust
floating in the frail air

I can only hold these
luminous objects
in the palm of
my insubstantial mind
and give them the momentary
of ink on paper
before they pass away
like my desk
my coat
my mind
my self

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