| 2 Poems By Ernest Williamson III |
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Empty Cup we met in Grothel's vineyard she, as wet wheat in the burrow below the sky left of the cabbage patches, loved me without words I've sustained millions of diluted wounds in heart and mind flown from flight to ideas of levity with wishes coated in real feelings unfelt a kiss in mind but lips dry with truth and yet in Grothel's vineyard wine gravitated away from my tongue as if I were a thief of the green with nothing to grasp, feign, or drink. The Orchestra of Things Seen what if weeping willows were songs accosted by the rivalry of shaped emotions heard I watched melodies resonate in the exhausted posture of the trees yet the coda was a recurrent paralysis denoted in the trunk, the roots, the inner core I'd sing will them in the rain with ragweed burning in my mouth reaching for the magnanimity of the willows which cry and brag at the same time in the same park yet in different daze |
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| Copyright © 2005 by Ernest Williamson III |
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