I Could Only Imagine
I could only hold you in my thoughts
breathe you in fields of apple and lilac
watch you in rain drops
meander you in words
follow you in winds
that sweep from the other side of morning
ponder you from water’s edge
for there are no bridges
wondering how does hello
unfurl into a trickle
a trickle into a river
a river into song
where it spills and shimmers
then floats away like summer
I could only imagine
for there are no bridges
Metaphorse
if I were
to unhinge this frame
peel away this coat
toss wild this canvas
maybe
throw on a chestnut brown
some good shoes
unfold into meadow
stomp immaculate muck
prance alder carnivals
eavesdrop on rapids
gallop auroras
genuflect before horizons
drowse on rosehips
lean east with junipers
dip into canyon haze
no need of wings
nor gallant knight
just an innocent brush
to release me so
would they notice
Patrick Meade was born and raised in Corner Brook, Newfoundland, where the brooks, ponds and ocean seeped their way into his daily life. Surrounded by owls, clouds, blue skies (once or twice a week), the trance of a forest, smiles, valleys and steep hills, his home became part of his fabric. Patrick has been writing poetry for ten years, and is currently at work on a novel, Lemon Pies.
