Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Eric Robert Nolan- A Poem


The Eastern Bluebird knows it sings, I think,
But doesn’t really know its own beauty.

That was you.
The soloist in
Your little white church
Everyone knew but you
Your own loveliness.

The lights singled you out in your song
Yet, ever modest
You had as little knowledge of your own luster
As starlight.

Later, on our drive home
Even in prosaic conversation
Your voice was song.  Your lips
Pursed to form the perfect overture.

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