Michael Diehl, Journeys
Bold Magic
Beggar of dust
in the smoky fog
naked we roam around,
without a glance.
But you don’t fear the Poetry,
the sharp enchantment
and the green bud of a reborn oak tree.
Comprehending doesn’t count.
It is the tears of resin
and the need of heaven and Springs who speak,
together with the lost immensity
that the land, all-knowing, doesn’t reveal.
To each their own journey,
and I, in my wrinkled blue, hot soup sip
from the bottom of a chipped plate.
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Virna Chessari