By Tom Farris, Contributing Poet
A tower was built long ago
In a field.
And now it stands against the clouds,
Into them.
It is straight and mighty
But old, and perfectly still,
Even as the youth move ever
Constant, yet ever pulled,
Beneath it.
It is huge, with a black stripe
Down the middle, and three black
Eyes, all under a hood of blue-green
Stale-copper. It is distant.
And it can’t reach to the impossibility,
To the fullest height of the gray, open,
Dome-field that is the sky, the impossibility,
Of the perfect mix of light and dark.
Yet does it need to?
It is higher than I am. It is higher
Than all people are. And so it stands
A symbol of a height
No one can, but yet hopes,
To reach.
For it is not the height,
But the reaching that matters.
That need and yearning
To acquire the hope
To move on
To Heaven.
