The warmth of a good poem
Held like sunlight, felt in the hand, yet gone:
Warm but absent, you are only light.
Graced by presence, true, and golden dust:
But faced with essence, no-one knows your touch.
Formed of fondness, you alone elate,
Then sift to hindsight, drift in the mind, unknown.
Warm but absent, you are only light:
Held like sunlight, felt in the hand, yet gone.
There are some people who grace us with their presence, and are delightful; but then transpire to be insubstantial – not a source of light, but a prism for it; still golden in aspect, warm perhaps, but empty.