Can one ever really write
a poem?
One that will soar
through the glen of the heart
at just the right speed
and just the right height,
an arm’s span from the edge,
so close to falling
through the shadows of tall pines
that crest the run of the glade besides.
I wonder,
can that be done?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Love, it seems,
must also remind
of the sadness in the world,
of all that we need
to protect against.
From sorrow arises
love. Two wrapped-up as one
is love, a pretty bow.
What we stand to lose is all
we’ve ventured to gain.
At the heart’s gate,
a note pinned by a thistle,
so flyaway, sways
in the morning breeze,
discernible only in moonlight,
its message faded by rain.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 