The Lingering Poet

a poem

Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash

The lingering poet
Was not lingering at all
When the poet’s eye filtered,
Through the prism of the soul,
The light of a new day.

The lingering poet
Was not lingering at all
When the poet’s nostril
Spied a faint scent
Of lavender, or
Was it a hue of a wild rose, with
Just perhaps, a dash of black salt,
Wind-sprinkled so far inland?

The lingering poet
Was not lingering at all
When the poet’s mouth inhaled
A bouquet of delicate tenderness,
Of the black salt over the lavender, and petals
Of the wild rose,
In the brilliance
Of the new, dew-diamond
Sparkling day

The lingering poet
Was not lingering at all.