Without A Motive

                                                                           


Is it true what have been said?
That faith creates the finest looks
That beauty grows from winter trees
From icy moors and stiffened seas.


And is it true that the bare branches
Have caught all life in the early buds
And young days of shining smiles 
give pure mirth and spiritual light.


Can I trust my sleeping mind?
In these so early moments 
That tender, but flickering flames
From my gloomy windows, move
Like gracious but shivering signs.


And in my options of accepted audit
will I hereby leave for more a day?
To give an unbroken substantial limit 
To find itself and in that, thyself to stay.

Copyright 13th of March  kc.