Forest Flower Poem by Terry Collett
Forest Flower
He goes to Rome
tomorrow,
the young monk,
tall, clothed in black.
I shake his hand
as other do
by the refectory door;
she opens herself
to me
like a forest flower
even in
my holy sleep.
The old monk
turns in his dying,
the church bells
chime him
the hour
in a steady peal.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: life
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4/19/2024 12:16:09 PM # 1.0.0.1119
