Poetry       Essays       Letters

Sandy Lyne


With Pleasure I Think of Them

Those Louisiana boys who attended my springtime class,
who marveled even themselves with new poems flushed from their silences,
are in the fields now, or the curved bayou, dressed in camouflage,
still as leaves themselves, their oiled guns on their shoulders,
the young eyes that without intent gathered origins of poems
intent now on the hieroglyph of autumn leaf, trunk, shadow,
their unspoiled ears filled with the requiem of telltale sounds,
their youth, their light breaths, their poised purpose
all going into the place of the heart where poems are shaped or stored,
written or not.


© The Estate of Sandford Lyne



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