Friday, February 08, 2008

sounds nice.

"Hours Hours"

Mornings we wrote, in separate domains.
Midday we napped and loved, and rose from bed
Back to the desk or garden. Then we read
Aloud from James or Keats, my turn or Jane's.

Some days were rankled by the unforeseen.
I quarreled with a friend. Another died.
When things went wrong, I sighed, I paced and sighed,
Until we found our way back to routine.

In June the black flies stung as Eagle Pond did
When the sharp smarting light assailed our eyes
On afternoons of our old enterprise
When the twin solitudes still corresponded.

Don Hall