Past
The wind is never freer
From having hair to blow
When we have left the mountain
Before the early snow.
The grass can grow no taller
Beneath our absent tread
And flowers are never wasted
When all the flowers are dead
The night comes as it has to.
The moon &Wilbur kiss.
With no one there to see it,
What memories will we miss?
The seasons have no hunger
To please us with their sport,
And only words as restless
Betray what we have thought.
And even those emotions,
From being once exposed,
Are like the closing chapters
Of books forever closed
I have one question though: Who is Wilbur?
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Past
A poem by John Fuller from his collection The Grey Among The Green . It puts a personal twist on Bishop Berkley's tree falling in the forest
