Poem for Leigh Hunt
I find ways to keep a sense of peace but it is not always easy; for example, I can't keep my questions tempered. What kind of sun expounds its rays upon the hills but then mutes like an ordinary bulb, small and self-contained? Moreover, what moon filters the blistering whiteness of snow so that it can only be seen by the fiscally immune, enamored by the dully-noted? Let me amble with Keats and his wandering expression and try to figure out if the poem keeps me encased in a rapture for which my dim external life won't account.
Copyright © 2012 by Prageeta Sharma. Used with permission of the author.