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Eclipse of the Moon

books and thoughts and news and work a jumbled
path through
summer fields, always old, always ahead, always
to be encountered
in time a drop of water
the April air is clear and it is raining in the
green fields
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I can never do it
get through the day on this mistake,
bitterness and all it
imposes. Trumpeters of the small,
awake; play music that all,
happy and sad, may make.
A heart that hardens
before its own tenderness
finds a luxuriant garden
in rhyme, and that's the snare
I won't be caught in here:
come, trumpets, that I may bless.
Each morning
I fight with my pen's
bitter singing
to make it whole
to make a soul
that makes all over again.
Trumpets of delight,
I hear your voices far:
what is the song? — Write
for a waking child:
his morning tears and smiles
are all that these words are.
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After James Shirley
"The glories of
our blood and state"
The stresses of the single life
are shadows, not substantial things;
a little love, a little strife,
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