I wonder if we'll look on books when there,
When every lamp is snuffed and all is bright,
When brought beyond unapproachable light,
When pulled into the deepest cosmic care:

Then we will know the One who truly knows,
Perhaps He'll use a book or lengthy tale,
Or tapestries and symphonies, the awe!
Or quiet whispers for which every lan-
guage was devised, but more like honey and,
Resplendent dew, like babbling brooks and velvet sand.

Poemise the day,
In parcels packaged with pensive thought,
Partial rhymes I posed and sought,
Then I plucked without delay,
Full rhymes and riches from the air,
Plumes and dust from a slow care,
To nurse a slowly day,
At once it quickened,
The cold air thickened,
All is hot and frantic on the way,
A chattered greeting into tussles,
Softballs landing squarely by the hustles,
Always good - great fun to play.

Pale Emperor of the winding wood,
Your kingdom abounds in brash bristles,
Taming the rippling mud hills,
You grasp the light and steal the shadows,
All falls dim in paling fields,
And in your calmest annunciation,
You whisper songs of palest moonlight,
That measure through the breadth of this land,
Yet I'll see you soon in withered dust,
For one domain prevails at last,
And flimsy flowers grow prideful in their wilting ways.