The Tower

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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.

 

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