POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
CHAOTIC PEACE
I think of nothing—
My mind leaps from mountain to mountain,
The drifts upon calm water.
I hear nothing—
Only the waves and the winds,
Violent and caressing.
I feel nothing—
My blood runs under my skin
Like a forest-fire underground.
THE RECLUSE
As evening creeps within the sheltered glade,
Trees turn to emerald, water to jade;
And on a branch a milk-white heron sits,
With drooping wings, silent and unafraid:
Like a great truth, within the gathering night,
Whose faint reflection streaks the depths with light.
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