Poetry by Tracy Marks

The Flavor of Morning
copyright 1967 by Tracy Marks


Come, awaken to my plea. Sharp with frost, my tongue
         babbles incoherently
Of yesterday's rain.
Where are you now? No voice is amplified across the silence.
Giants have fallen in less time.

Come, reappear before me. The harvest is over but the earth
Still tastes of honey in December.
How have I been melted by a throbbing pulse -
I who was born of the sun's molten rays?

Come, revitalize the summer.
I have forgotten the sting of barefoot sand
and the flavor of morning. Too young I have died.
How unexpectedly, how unintentionally, memories conceal
what once was realer than the wind.




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