Upon a single foot begins
A journey of a thousand lines;
To meet a reasonable pace
The second stress is borne four times.
The early steps, in certain climes,
Are glazed with icy rime, and trace
A path from prior space and time
So there, by God, I go with grace.
But forward motion’s warming feat
Will shake spears loose of cold dies cast
And fade the scars of past defeats
And melt the mourning frost at last.
The coming spring brings ten essential
Words worth wit-men’s pens at play:
If I compare thee, truth, to beauty
I see but a summer’s day.
By two, I break on through this pen’s
Restrictive wooden script and burst
Open, flaunting well-lettered men’s
Established rules for every verse.
The sun, its climb peaked, radiates
With vigilant sincerity,
So I for half an afternoon
May bask in golden clarity.
But further off, the waxing moon,
Though early, stands attentively,
Reflecting light too bright to gaze
Directly on, like ink and page
Distill thought-dreams that can’t be seen.
By nightfall, stumbling whence began
This pilgrimage toward works that mean
Anything in the end, I land
Upon a blanket sheet of dreams:
Unconsciousness will guide my hand.
(Before I fade, have tribute paid
The friend who rescued me, enjambed
And drunk from every still of trite
Distraction, never left but stayed
Afoot, so I am willed to write:
I think, therefore I thank, iamb.)
