By Annie Finch
Sir, I am not a bird of prey:
a Lady does not seize the day.
I trust that brief Time will unfold
our youth, before he makes us old.
How could we two write lines of rhyme
were we not fond of numbered Time
and grateful to the vast and sweet
trials his days will make us meet?
The Grave’s not just the body’s curse;
no skeleton can pen a verse!
So while this numbered World we see,
let’s sweeten Time with poetry,
and Time, in turn, may sweeten Love
and give us time our love to prove.
You’ve praised my eyes, forehead, breast:
you’ve all our lives to praise the rest.
Reprinted with permission of the author and Story Line Press (www.storylinepress.com).
Source: Eve (Story Line Press, 1997)
Poet Bio
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Insect
That hour-glass-backed,
orchard-legged,
heavy-headed will,
paper-folded,
wedge-contorted,
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arching
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feathered down
green will,
antenna-honest,
thread-descending,
carpeted as if with skill,
a focus-changing,
sober-reaching,
tracing, killing will.
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