Poetry–a white fox sneaking:
playful, and when she sees you see her,
she darts–
runs back into hiding in the thickets,
disappears, hardly a trace
but she was stunning
and her dew black eyes saw mine
she was gentle, adoring–
the encounter breaks, ruptures:
lament, mourning
how awful to know the face of poetry
and yet
not get to be near–such longing,
such longing is her source
Reblogged this on By the Mighty Mumford and commented:
FOX—THE HUNT FOR POETRY IS ON! 😀