“Meaning” is a constructed
I almost heard. It built through me, alone.
Words rose like stones. Words stilled, building the poem.
It was a temple for an afternoon.
I left the swingset rusting on the lawn
that was my childhood calling through the poem.
Each word was pure and far. Each was alone
as morning fell on faces, then was gone
into the mourning that became the poem.
It was a temple for an afternoon
of perfect columns that remained unseen.
Mind’s columns built a time that was the poem.
It hadn’t shown its words were words alone,
as weeks dissolved through years, like misting rain.
A human meaning rose to be the poem
and stood, a temple for an afternoon.
It lasted with me. It was gone too soon.
Words blurred through pages, paging past each poem
through time beyond a poem’s time alone,
beyond all temples of words’ afternoon.