tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21864459329256814132023-11-15T09:55:00.654-08:00The Quiet Cartesian - Rhymed and Metrical Poetry for a More Civilized AgeA transient soapbox for the tortured creations of a modern-day metricalist. That's all.Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.comBlogger186125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-67625774504131636482011-06-06T12:40:00.000-07:002011-06-06T12:41:36.478-07:00Busy<span style="font-size:85%;">Let the words speak for themselves. Of course, it does not help that I have, by choice, no internet at home.<br /><br /><br />Busy<br /><br />When love and labor occupy my days,<br />I fear it is my poetry that pays.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-26895379733205796042011-05-31T16:13:00.001-07:002011-05-31T16:13:34.323-07:00Home<span style="font-size:85%;">I've only been living in this new apartment for a month and a half, but already it feels like home. But then, I suppose I know the cause of that.<br /><br /><br />Home<br /><br />Beneath the cedar and the stars<br />aligning in the evening sky -<br />old Sirius and rusty Mars -<br />reposes both my home and I.<br /><br />How quietly we watch the night<br />grow deeper with the dipping sun,<br />as steady streams of people fight<br />against the red and angry run<br /><br />of traffic flowing from the streets<br />that checker-box the city to<br />their empty houses. Each one greets<br />its occupant with silence. Who<br /><br />would call these houses homes? Not I.<br />But then, my house is never dead,<br />and, in the evenings, there is my<br />own love to greet the one she wed.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-42717931584698018132011-05-23T18:21:00.000-07:002011-05-23T18:22:21.214-07:00Cupid and Psyche<span style="font-size:85%;">Quod ergo Deus conjúnxit, homo non séparet.<br /><br /><br />Cupid and Psyche<br /><br />Your smile is a song these wayward lips<br />will sing, my Psyche, sweet as summer rain,<br />a physic fit to cure my every pain<br />and radiance that, ringing this eclipse,<br /><br />reminds me of the night you held a glim<br />and gazed on Cupid's countenance, asleep,<br />a trespass, yet a covenant to keep,<br />for, in the incandescence of the dim<br /><br />and frail flame, you found another I,<br />as similar as if the two were one,<br />and pledged yourself, before you were begun,<br />to bear eternity; and I reply<br /><br />that if another's lover be as true,<br />she would be yet a feeble shade of you.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-70802660780840514532011-05-16T15:22:00.000-07:002011-05-16T15:23:42.960-07:00Alike<span style="font-size:85%;">Five more days...<br /><br /><br />Alike<br /><br />As there is one alike myself,<br />that one I will embrace,<br />so quick to sweep my dusty shelf<br />of every idle trace<br />and cast this clutter out the door.<br />Each clearing opened on the floor<br /><br />is priceless, for it clears away<br />the rubbish of a life<br />half-lived. I'll close this feeble play;<br />I'll settle every strife<br />and pull the curtain up anew,<br />as fresh and flawless as the dew.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-13372854984576521792011-05-09T15:28:00.001-07:002011-05-16T15:23:42.960-07:00Guest<span style="font-size:85%;">I'm afraid that, with the wedding coming up in less than two weeks, my posting schedule will be spotty, at best. I do promise to continue posting (and on schedule again in a couple weeks...).<br /><br /><br />Guest<br /><br />Amid the hectic manna grass,<br />abundant clump and crest<br />arranged about in knotty mass<br />and fitfully at rest,<br />I found a bearing for my heart,<br />your undistinguished guest;<br /><br />you set before my idle start<br />a door, however small,<br />a portal clad in quiet art<br />but opulent in sprawl,<br />and so endowed my residence;<br />so unalike the small<br /><br />and simple hovel, purchased, pence<br />and pieces, in my youth;<br />how could this effortless expense<br />be ample trade, in truth,<br />for such a fortune, such a lass<br />as loved a man uncouth.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-68720528331873999982011-05-02T15:24:00.000-07:002011-05-16T15:23:42.961-07:00By the Sea<span style="font-size:85%;">I realized, today, that it has been close on a year since I have been to the ocean. This is clearly a situation that must be remedied. Not, however, in the next three weeks. Life is far too busy now. Thus, when I go again, it will be as a married man.<br /><br /><br />By the Sea<br /><br />Roll me a wave<br />in the amethyst sea,<br />where a watery grave<br />sets the sailors free,<br /><br />and the anchorless dross<br />of uncountable craft<br />make a bearing across<br />the pelagiac draught;<br /><br />where the ambergris spins<br />in unceasing pavane<br />and the current begins<br />to unravel again,<br /><br />while the surf and the swell<br />seem to call from the shore<br />and I wonder to tell<br />that they wait at my door.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-50851429622812498812011-04-23T14:35:00.001-07:002011-05-16T15:23:42.961-07:00Two Rooms<span style="font-size:85%;">Two weeks of gradual packing and one day of harried moving, and I'm finally moved into our new place. This is the first time in my life that I've lived alone, and the apartment feels a bit empty and lonely. Fortunately, this state will not last long. Come May 21st and I will be living with my best friend. Could it get any better than that? I think not.<br /><br /><br />Two Rooms<br /><br />Two weeks I had two rooms,<br />and now return to one;<br />the honeysuckle blooms,<br />but I am fled and run<br /><br />and bound for greener lea,<br />to put behind the years<br />that mounted me a play<br />of apathy and fears.<br /><br />No more the doubts abuse;<br />no more, the bitter night;<br />so certain of my muse;<br />so luminous in light,<br /><br />and if I should contest<br />the solace of my home,<br />then never let me rest;<br />no heart was made to roam.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-6934419997397350542011-04-16T22:37:00.000-07:002011-05-16T15:23:42.962-07:00Worry<span style="font-size:85%;">It is very hard, sometimes, to remember that God will provide. So many things seem beyond control, and they are; yet no trouble that the world could engender is beyond the reach of faith. He always does provide.<br /><br /><br />Worry<br /><br />My worry is a cyst,<br />a penetrating hole,<br />indelicately kissed<br />and suckled in the soul,<br /><br />but empty as a threat<br />and tender as a bruise;<br />no want nor worry yet<br />could keep me from my muse.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-80013337069938215292011-04-09T21:41:00.000-07:002011-05-16T15:23:42.962-07:00Skybound<span style="font-size:85%;">Sometimes, the world seems to be filled with unhappy people, and I wonder how it is possible that those few happy ones don't fill the world with joy. Then, I remember that the happiest ones are so because they have hidden themselves away, and I am glad not to know who they are.<br /><br /><br />Skybound<br /><br />Upon the ground, it seemed naive<br />to clamber from below.<br />How many undertake to leave?<br />How many never go?<br /><br />How many? All the world dreams<br />that stars will fall to earth,<br />but as for me, I'll burst these seams<br />and seize upon my mirth.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-81347497955820815912011-04-02T19:40:00.001-07:002011-04-02T19:40:27.241-07:00Victory<span style="font-size:85%;">A life lived with others requires a constant death to self. Without this, one cannot truly love, for there will always be some small part of oneself that one places ahead of others. Love is selfless, or it is not love. We must reach constantly for that, for there is no in-between.<br /><br /><br />Victory<br /><br />The words that we pass in the light<br />are seamlessly spoken and heard,<br />but love must endure the night<br />that leaves this indigence uncured,<br /><br />and so I did strike at myself,<br />as if it were easily done;<br />defeat finds me back on the shelf,<br />and yours is the victory won.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-10823833563987665172011-03-26T07:24:00.000-07:002011-03-26T07:25:09.878-07:00Dismantling<span style="font-size:85%;">The more I box up, the more I wish to throw away. I'm a pack rat. Not an incorrigible one, but a pack rat, nonetheless. I have, in my house, the collected detritus of a decade, and I'm only now beginning to realize that I need very, very little of it. A good rule of thumb: if it hasn't been used in the last five years, it is probably expendable.<br /><br /><br />Dismantling<br /><br />The clutter of a spartan life is clutter, still,<br />and cursing never cured a messy room,<br />so open all the drawers and let the garbage fill,<br />condemn the sullied tiles to the broom,<br /><br />as, box on box, the stacks ascend in even shoots,<br />a camel cardboard forest from the floor;<br />I'll keep no more than needed when I'm pulling roots<br />and carrying my chattels out the door;<br />a dwelling and a heart; no less, no more.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-77831407184434482232011-03-19T22:58:00.001-07:002011-03-19T22:59:50.155-07:00Homecoming<span style="font-size:85%;">Tomorrow, I begin packing for the move, and this long-suffering man watches as his belongings are divided between the necessary and the disposable. Not that I mind; I could certainly suffer a sparser existence. And besides, I'm far too happy to object to the diminution of my worldly goods.<br /><br /><br />Homecoming<br /><br />My heart was light and lithe the day I left<br />and longing for a home; these spartan walls<br />are spare and I no longer love the theft<br />of time, since silence settled on the squalls<br /><br />that thrust me, like a ship, upon the shoal;<br />this castaway has caught a friendly breeze<br />to bear me to a harbor and a soul;<br />if one and one could ever make a whole,<br />then here am I to offer at your ease.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-14888850949899017842011-03-12T12:35:00.000-08:002011-03-12T12:36:06.672-08:00Imminent<span style="font-size:85%;">Of course, it's raining today, but I could have sworn I saw the sun on Friday. Crocuses are blooming, trees are budding, and May is coming faster than I could have imagined.<br /><br /><br />Imminent<br /><br />Old, grey-eyed winter gives a final gasp<br />and clutches at the bony-fingered trees,<br />bewildered and bedeviled by the grasp<br />of blossoms bearing upwards to the bees;<br /><br />high overhead, the clouds dispense a spell,<br />a curtain call of keen and seething snow,<br />but feebly, for they notice, all too well,<br />the shoots and runners readying to grow.<br /><br />And how the weathermen will groan and gripe<br />and warn us of the ever-coming chill,<br />as arctic winds diminish, over-ripe<br />and withered. Let the weather as it will,<br /><br />but, as for me, a warble on the wing<br />assures me of the certainty of spring.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-53338893420254109452011-03-05T21:47:00.001-08:002011-03-05T21:47:48.813-08:00Treasures<span style="font-size:85%;">How many rich men count themselves happy? It is not money, but people, that we ought to consider wealth. When every last penny has been spent, the worth of those who love us will not have been depleted by one whit.<br /><br /><br />Treasures<br /><br />I am not rich, but neither am I poor;<br />my coffers ebb and flow abreast the tide,<br />to satisfy me from an ample store.<br />It is a simple duty to provide<br /><br />for everyday demands. A modest heart,<br />obliging both in appetite and mode,<br />impels a similarly modest art<br />to satisfy its unabating load,<br /><br />and gladly, for a dollar never bought<br />a single speck of happiness. I must<br />rely upon another, as I ought,<br />and rest my merriment upon the trust<br /><br />that you will love me even when my stock<br />of worldly relief has run its clock.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-54031910923481649632011-02-27T07:11:00.001-08:002011-02-27T07:12:16.678-08:00Dreams<span style="font-size:85%;">I can never predict what sort of dreams I will have. Sometimes, they are pleasant. Other times, they are frightening. But, mostly, they are just strange. They play out like vignettes from an indie film, and I am all too happy to wake up in the morning.<br /><br /><br />Dreams<br /><br />Some dreams are spun in filaments of gold<br />and silk, and hold against the sudden break<br />of morning light that startles us awake;<br />they swathe us in the unassuming fold<br /><br />of easy sleep. But other are the dreams<br />devised of darker element and thread;<br />they keep a correspondence with the dead<br />and hold us in the horror of their seams.<br /><br />And as we slip and sally into shade,<br />the visitants that quicken in the brain<br />and enter the imagination's vein<br />may leave us overjoyed or afraid<br /><br />upon the cryptic rhythm of their tide;<br />no slumber's certain till it can subside.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-8190526711128020052011-02-20T07:54:00.001-08:002011-02-20T07:56:50.276-08:00Daybreak<span style="font-size:85%;">I almost didn't get a poem written this time around. Life is getting incrementally busier with every week. It seems that the quantity of free time I have and the degree to which others need me is in inverse proportion. However, soon enough, summer will be here, and I will be a (relatively) free man.<br /><br /><br />Daybreak<br /><br />The night was passing, dim and dark;<br />the night was dreary as the sea,<br />a scattering of stars to mark<br />each astral eccentricity,<br />and, all the while, I metered by degree<br /><br />the subtle shift, from east to west,<br />as declinations wheeled on<br />their measured spheres in measured rest<br />and made a bearing for the dawn.<br />Then, even as the moon was growing wan,<br /><br />and wilted in the early light,<br />I smiled at the frosty earth<br />and set my wandering to flight,<br />to settle in a homey berth<br />and find a humble warren for my mirth<br /><br />where you and I will make a home,<br />as hopeful as the rising few<br />who waken to the waning gloam<br />in faith the sun will surge anew,<br />encircling our joy in its view.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-63069064138493576192011-02-12T14:39:00.000-08:002011-02-14T13:47:01.876-08:00Succor<span style="font-size:85%;">Love is proved not in ease, but in times of trouble, and fair-weather friend is no friend at all when the strength of love and happiness is measured by the weight it can bear.<br /><br /><br />Succor<br /><br />Now let me be your ease<br />and erubescent glow<br />or sunny summer breeze,<br />too reticent to blow,<br /><br />but keen enough to set<br />a kiss upon your cheek<br />and obligate a debt<br />of one, alone; I seek<br /><br />that you would let me be<br />your baluster and bond,<br />the bastion of your plea<br />through ages and beyond,<br /><br />to undergird your grief<br />and fortify your peace;<br />I pledge you a relief<br />of adamant increase.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-48941014551994710902011-02-05T10:57:00.001-08:002011-02-05T10:57:45.254-08:00A Little More<span style="font-size:85%;">Time passes swiftly and the months fall away; every day draws us another day nearer. How could so many miss this happiness I have found? We are a fallen people, and our heaven is both painfully immediate and unattainably distant.<br /><br /><br />A Little More<br /><br />A little more this hand must wait to bear<br />the weight that others shoulder with a sigh,<br />but silver bands are lighter than the air<br />and vows, a better salve. So long as I<br /><br />long only for my perfect counterpart,<br />I will not play a wastrel, spurning love.<br />With every beat, you calibrate your heart<br />to fit me like an old, accustomed glove.<br /><br />And know that I would empty every breath<br />to fashion mine a mirror of your own,<br />reflecting, now and ever after death,<br />a beauty that was for my eyes, alone.<br /><br />And so, I wait a little more to see<br />this promise of a fair eternity.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-65973543196452539212011-01-29T07:56:00.000-08:002011-01-29T07:58:37.275-08:00My Messy Domain<span style="font-size:85%;">It seems that I am always playing catch-up with my chores; never enough time nor motivation to get everything done. Fortunately, I leave my current apartment in three months. At least with this deadline, I will <span style="font-style: italic;">have</span> to get things done.<br /><br /><br />My Messy Domain<br /><br />I have a little nation;<br />I've kept it very well,<br />but not so neat in station<br />as seasons ought to tell,<br /><br />for worries, far more pressing<br />than sums of folded shirts,<br />and laboring, a blessing<br />however much it hurts,<br /><br />exhaust my meager hours<br />and nibble at my ease.<br />This <span style="font-style: italic;">de rigueur</span> devours,<br />by strengthening degrees,<br /><br />what time I have alloted<br />to straighten up my realm,<br />and yet, the course I've plotted<br />upon this homely helm<br /><br />will fetch me to a sterile<br />and surrogate domain,<br />to open, at my peril,<br />a new and muddled reign<br /><br />and reinstill the jumble<br />that jeopardized my home,<br />a regent rendered humble<br />wherever he may roam.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-81849981258084352802011-01-22T21:09:00.000-08:002011-01-22T22:23:20.843-08:00My Sparrow<span style="font-size:85%;">The most blessed thing you could boast is a faithful friend, and if that friend also be a lover, you can indeed be called happy no matter what troubles you encounter.<br /><br /><br />My Sparrow<br /><br />My comfort is my sparrow, constant friend,<br />confirmed alike in trouble or in ease<br />and ready to console; no flighty breeze,<br />but steady from the onset to the end,<br /><br />whatever worries dog my weary heart,<br />for, day to day, I put my bosom trust<br />in this abiding promise, as I must<br />if ever love let fly a faithful dart<br />and raised a vital body from the dust.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-51076785732373423222011-01-15T18:11:00.000-08:002011-01-15T18:12:00.595-08:00Insomnia<span style="font-size:85%;">Cold nights and noisy neighbors mean that, for me, a good sleep is rarely had. Add on to that early morning alarms, finals week preparations, and hours spent driving all over God's green earth, and you have a perfect storm. I had thought I might catch up on sleep over Christmas break, but found that I can no longer sleep past 6:30 a.m. I keep telling myself that I'll make up for it all some day soon, but that day never seems to come.<br /><br /><br />Insomnia<br /><br />As surely as I lay my head<br />to rest, recumbent on the down,<br />the stars align, by compline led<br />and blessed above our weary town,<br />and firmly do I follow at the thread<br />and sable gown<br /><br />that furls, now, from east to west,<br />to wind the world in a net;<br />the artless by an art possessed,<br />the mind enfolded to forget<br />such languid life our leisure would invest.<br />How can I let<br /><br />my hours fade, so undefined?<br />They fly as quickly as the frost<br />and leave me restive and resigned,<br />a tired debtor. Time is lost,<br />and even as the stars are realigned<br />at such a cost.<br /><br />So take your pleasure as you ply<br />your bed and berth; the grasping hand<br />of dawn is greedy and the sky<br />is reddening. Upon command,<br />the stars and I exchange a last goodbye<br />above this land.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-88448447094232684142011-01-08T19:05:00.000-08:002011-01-08T19:09:35.906-08:00Occupation<span style="font-size:85%;">I used to worry that I wouldn't have enough to do with all my free time. I could not have been more wrong. Now, I make do with what minutes and hours (more often the former than the latter) I can grasp. It makes it difficult to find time to write even one short poem during the week; hence, this six-line runt churned out fifteen minutes ago.<br /><br /><br />Occupation<br /><br />I've hurtled through the week<br />like a careening cannon ball,<br />too worn to write or speak<br />and so the pen and paper fall<br />asleep and silent, meek<br />as I, but ready at my call.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-18461498383365628532011-01-01T12:17:00.001-08:002011-01-01T12:21:06.125-08:00Country Stars<span style="font-size:85%;">An urbanized sky is a sorry thing, with barely a handful of dim and dreary stars. Travel to the country, however, and you will find a treasure trove of brilliant and luminous constellations. It is easy to forget the beauty of God's creation when you spend your life trapped in the hazy, cement walls of a city, but a quick trip to the wilderness will remind you, in an instant, of the inestimable vastness of the universe.<br /><br /><br />Country Stars<br /><br />The stars of the city are pale and grey,<br />a glimmer of heavenly cheer,<br />awoken to shutter the elderly day<br />in shadow. This stale career<br /><br />is all that persists of the glorious crown<br />that once superseded the earth,<br />as timid ascension and settling down<br />deposits the stars in their berth.<br /><br />But travel a little beyond the divide<br />that severs the city and wood,<br />where rivers run deep and horizons are wide<br />and wild, and then if you should<br /><br />look up on a cloudless and equable night,<br />the stars that you see overhead<br />will glory the sky in a radiant light<br />that rouses the living and dead.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-46365867370410194592010-12-24T18:25:00.001-08:002010-12-24T18:30:36.766-08:00The Festival of the Last Minute<span style="font-size:85%;">Another year come and gone; another fifty-two poems on the (metaphorical) page. This next shall bring big changes for me - momentous, earth-shaking changes - but this poetry blog, read or unread, will steadily chug along. I can only hope that it brings you as much joy as it does me. God bless and merry Christmas.<br /><br /><br />The Festival of the Last Minute<br /><br />With Christmas close upon us and the rush<br />of shopping, should it come as a surprise<br />that charity is buried in a crush<br />of acquisition. How we idolize<br /><br />and gather, like a flock of silly sheep,<br />and straightaway surrender every scrap<br />of will and wit and intellect we keep<br />to toe the latest trend. This honeyed trap<br /><br />entices both the plebeian and prince.<br />What better way to show your tender care<br />than with a gift? How better to convince<br />of love than by the offerings you bear?<br /><br />But as for me, I'll spend the eve in rest<br />and seek to be an honest Christmas guest.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2186445932925681413.post-10893294152166664602010-12-18T18:43:00.000-08:002010-12-18T18:44:26.417-08:00Worth<span style="font-size:85%;">I am tired and this poem is quite nearly late. Thank goodness for Christmas break. May your last week of Advent be blessed.<br /><br /><br />Worth<br /><br />I had a little speck of worth<br />within me from the start,<br />established in the fallow earth<br />that occupied my heart,<br /><br />but now that heart has been rebuilt<br />into a fertile bed<br />and all the worth that used to wilt<br />is blooming overhead.<br /><br /></span>Cartesian Quieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01082318125659947289noreply@blogger.com0