Fragment of a poem hph/njn 1948
α
Waiting for 8am in the solitary car here
I watch hopping bird poke, pick, eat the breeze
chatting without talk, the tree wet from thick rain
the early morning light, hill mist new, bare
in cool green air
β
then,
a leaf falls down, a fragile bit poem
comes into place
handwritten fragment of memory
a teak bookcase where
γ
one ancient book of Greek
the flyleaf weak
not so often open now
the rhythm in ink, but going nowhere
