As often as I’ve gushed about this place,
Lip-synching rapture into metaphor,
Like foggy morning breeze against my face,
Less startled than refreshed, and begging more,
I’ve never caught in words the atmosphere
Nor sung the sun in seasonal degrees –
Enough if I could charm your busy ear;
Sufficient if you paused to listen, please.
That many times times seven I’ll repeat
Old syllables with new harmonics mixed
Like dying petals into potpourri
In porous bowls of pottery. I fixed
Forsaken verse, but I cannot imbue
Each word with vigor to awaken you.