He lies upon the sofa staring out
The window at the rain. Lying about
Is what he does these days, his flesh in need
Of healing, though his spirit’s newly freed.
Few things he looks at now inspire dreams.
A knowing silence lately seen gleams
In mind and heart, transfiguring mere time
And gesture into hieroglyphs, sublime
Reminders every raindrop, every leaf
Engages every joy and every grief.
Frank Wilson is a poet and critic. You can visit him at Books Inq. http://booksinq.blogspot.com/