The Ultimate Word
by Marion Doyle
Always there has been something not quite said:
Something that sunlight sifted down through leaves,
Starlight on water, and the echoes shed
From slow rain’s whisper in deserted eaves
Tried to interpret in my slower tongue . . .
Once, long ago-oh, very long ago-
Before the world was old, and I was young,
I almost grasped the Word in flakes of snow,
In fireflies like golden spangles flung
Across a dancer’s twilight-colored hair,
In spider-webs miraculously strung
With a gnome-king’s ransom in the morning air . . .
But that was long ago-oh, long ago-
Before the world was old, and I was young.
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