A POOR POGE’S TALE
An empty hand knows only the malaise
Of endless hours which yield no issue;
An unbroken silence in search of a running wind.
Between the twin eternities a traveler
May find a rich harvest or a bitter famine.
This skein is sewn by another Hand
And our voices are often muted by Its decree.
More often a pilgrimage of the lost;
Frightened souls without path or destination,
Aimlessly wandering,
Driven onward by Fate.
May we grasp the unseen Hand
And beg some meaning,
Or is to grasp this Hand too bold?
This Hand which touches a traveler,
Somewhere on his journey between the sunlight
And the dream.