“Like gold to aery thinness beat.”
—John Donne, A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
Consider the climbing vine, how the tendril
clings to the trellis, knowing just which way
to turn and twine its charm three times around.
The sheerest filament, somehow strung
in black of night, though this no dream, glistens
between two blazing tips of goldenrod,
bellies and sways, then shimmers out of sight.
Wide eyed, sucking wet breath, the newborn curls
his fist around whatever it can clasp—
blanket, finger, nose, lip, ringlet of hair—
and will not let go, more fierce than death.
But once I saw a thing more subtle, more true,
through all the miles and years and wasted hours,
a strand of light that ties my soul to you.
from Autumn Sky Poetry 23 — by John Savoie
Photo by Shannon E. Thomas