Tintern Abbey
Perhaps I'm copying Wordsworth
But in reading his words my mind also turns--
Turns back to the ruins and the day I stood there,
God's stained glass--
The greenest green you've ever seen
On fire with a cool, misty rain,
The sweet white smoke filling my lungs, and covering the mountain tops.
God's stained glass
Taking it's place in the broken windows.
My green hiking boots splash in puddles
But quietly.
Climbing, exploring, sketching, laughing, pondering.
All silently, yet not in volume or tone.
We are happy and playful
With a somewhat-reverent camaraderie.
It is my dearest friends, William Wordsworth, and me.
Perhaps I'm copying Wordsworth
But in reading his words my mind also turns--
Turns back to the ruins and the day I stood there,
God's stained glass--
The greenest green you've ever seen
On fire with a cool, misty rain,
The sweet white smoke filling my lungs, and covering the mountain tops.
God's stained glass
Taking it's place in the broken windows.
My green hiking boots splash in puddles
But quietly.
Climbing, exploring, sketching, laughing, pondering.
All silently, yet not in volume or tone.
We are happy and playful
With a somewhat-reverent camaraderie.
It is my dearest friends, William Wordsworth, and me.
Perhaps I'm copying Wordsworth.
But when I read again the lines of Tintern Abbey
I too reminisce with the poet.
Emotion, memories carry me away.
To the before, the then, and the now.
To the when I read those same words in that place.
To England and how it changed me.
How I want to go back.
How my heart yearns and aches.
I wish I could really copy Wordsworth.
Not just in subject and thought and emotion.
But words--mine are lame compared to his.
Still, words are the way to unleash my muse,
The Embers of England and friendship and writing
That always tumult inside my soul.
Weak words it must be,
Trying to express everything I'm feeling inside.
But when I read again the lines of Tintern Abbey
I too reminisce with the poet.
Emotion, memories carry me away.
To the before, the then, and the now.
To the when I read those same words in that place.
To England and how it changed me.
How I want to go back.
How my heart yearns and aches.
I wish I could really copy Wordsworth.
Not just in subject and thought and emotion.
But words--mine are lame compared to his.
Still, words are the way to unleash my muse,
The Embers of England and friendship and writing
That always tumult inside my soul.
Weak words it must be,
Trying to express everything I'm feeling inside.
2 comments:
i'm in the bottom picture.
i'm famous.
it feels good.
I love these pictures, and your not-very melodramatic poem, and you.
(My camera is in the top picture, so I think that means I'm famous too!! Woo!!)
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