100

100 poems. It only took me two years to get here. As accomplishments go, it is not a grand one, but it is an accomplishment, nonetheless. So, a toast to the Quiet Cartesian; happy centennial, and here's to many more poems to come!

100

A century within a word;

each syllable, an age

that echoes on, though never heard

nor penciled on a page.

Unspoken, though the speaking be

the measure and the meat

that satisfies in small degree

and gives the burden feet,

while shoots and flowers bend to frost,

to stand erect, again,

and sunlight waxes on the ghost

of winter, fitful friend,

and time unwinds against the clock

that counts the hours down,

until the grave and grief unlock

a legacy and crown.

For whom? The asking is not mine.

This duty, set astride

such feeble shoulders, frail spine,

is simply to provide

my rendering, a meager one -

inheritance of time -

that wills the wanting, once begun,

to rest within a rhyme.