Mourning Glove, … new poem

I slipped on my mourning glove
As dawn approached from above
And night seeped away to the West
Through trees and grasses.

I slipped on my mourning glove
That fit so smoothly onto my hand,
Its softness like my own skin
Yet more protective

To mourn the coming of a cluttered day
Until the calm of night returns
Where darkness flows forever,
Empty and full of potential,

Where pent-up energy of the day
Is released and expressed
To spin and swirl
A clockwork universe.

Clutter prevents seeing what is there
Emptiness allows seeing what is not.

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About Don Segal

See Commentary, Photos, Drawings and Poetry on my blog at donsegal.wordpress.com.
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