Even I can hear one old wall
whisper to another at a corner.
They meet for evening tales --
a breathless text of serious bricks
carried on gray syntax of mortar.
This night's story is embellished
by a Greek chorus of shadows
drifting from weary street lamps,
shadows too curious to be held
by wan light no longer dreaming.
"Before tomorrow turns a sundial,
the marvelous one found hours
to unfold a fragrance of narcissus
and almost dance in beauty's form
on paths of wisdom now changed
to paths holding a residue of grace."
Even I can hear the soul of Harvard
offer evening paeans to your eyes.
Copyright 2011 -- Tim Buck
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