I Write Poetry

It's February 14th 2020.

Now sky framed branches of the oak trees darken dim,
A monk can turn the page,
Of his book of hours within.

Feeling in thoughtful gloom the glint of borders gold,
Round chants of boundless faith,
His tongue is cracked tin, old.

But lips still form the words of unwrit, private prayer,
That all this liquid heart,
Might pour out still, somewhere.