A Single Thread [sonnet]

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So many years since perfume graced my nose;
I’ve now forgotten how to bathe in skin.
No fecund business in that garden grows;
no longer would I know where to begin.

Perhaps this is the poet’s secret pain
to keep the yearning spirit occupied
while knowing he’ll not share a bed again.
With wilderness he must be satisfied.

But mountain paths are narrowful and strait
with only space for one soul at a time.
The clean air there helps poets procreate;
their words the only loves that ever rhyme.

Though life there dangles by a single thread,
from every pore my poetry has bled.


© Alan Morrison, 2014

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