Poet's Trouble

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It is not good
to lose your voice,

then in the end
the return is a far from
sunny return, but wholely needed

in some frisky winter wind.
The nucleus of its strains,

a harmonious music that
Wallace Stevens touched
and kissed,

at the end of the bronzed sky day.
The soul is lost and oddly kept,

and the willows of the magnanimous yards,
homegrown beyond domesticity,

and the voice, once lost, once darkness shrouded
returns; there is music again, there is a soul
that has discovered its true arias--

there is the throwing open of a heaven, of sort: 
a nascent heaven, fully matured.


© Lamont Palmer

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