I remembered this girlhood poem of mine while thinking last evening about the children in Haiti. I'm posting it unedited, am keeping it as written by my 17-year-old self. Not that it couldn't benefit from much reworking, but it is simple and pure and I think should be allowed to remain that way.......
I could tell of the life and death
of a rose,
but outside my window
is a storm that would
kill a rose before it bloomed.
So I won't tell the story of
I could tell of the grandeur
of a mountain,
but the storm makes a mountain
So I won't tell of the grandeur of
I could compose a dictionary
of words with truth,
but truth may not exist.
So I won't compose a dictionary of
I could cry bittersweet tears
but the storm might change them to ice.
So I won't cry bittersweet tears of
I could wrap every winter's child
in warm blankets,
I like to suppose,
but I haven't enough blankets
for a world of winter's children -
and when they die I will cry.
No I can't save every winter's child.
I could write through the dark
'til the light,
but sleepiness I can't conquer
and I don't want to try -
when sleep brings such peace,
I suppose. I suppose.
© MLM "Lydia"
"No, I can't save every winter's child."
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