Each time I touch beauty | Poem by Joan Pond

Each time I touch beauty,

it is gone, good-bye, as nothing.

Snowdrifts sob through charred rock,

as we fade into crystal possibilities, jammed as one.

 

Be wise.  Entertain no love, but love the flaws.

An athlete who weeps, is afloat in my bloodstream.

he is hidden as amen or adieu.

Some slide down the dipper

and drive their chins into the North Star,

or they set ten toes as a compass, round the Pole.

I march without movement,

recalling green beauty.

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