Poem 17 Revised

Reflecting on Urns

I would not be so pretentious to think
That I could write on urns
But I stood there and witnessed
Men and women, robbed and running
Folded fabric fluttering without wind

There, pressed my nose against the window
Marveled marbled histrionics 
Accumulating poise
Someone’s timeless verve
danced the figures into poses

Someone etched eternal solstace
with pale grave hands
Stand with me and watch them larking:
Merry moment marked on tempered vase.

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