Sunday Poem

Wintering with Whitman

Walt is buoyant
and holds the kosmos
in his hands,
heralds the future
with booming voice.

I tramp over
the flag
of my disposition
which lies
burnt brown
and buried in snow.

Each night
I turn pages,
loafe and have my ill-ease
transformed
by degree
to hope

spring will arrive
in gaudy grandeur,
each petal
a pennant
waving
on behalf of itself.

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