Wiser Mind

Language limits all I feel,
But it yet reveals some that's real -

In a moment, quiet and soft,
When the mind reaches blisses utter bereft
Of clinging sorrow I cannot breach
Except at these heights I barely reach.

And at the mount of memory's insight,
I draw out a sketch too faint despite
The clarity of my vision's quality
And the richness of color I see.

What I conclude, you see, is this I'm sure:
The mind I'm in is wise and I less pure -
And I'm a fool persisting in folly,
Grasping the wind that's here already.

Featured image: ‘The West Wind,’ by Tom Thomson (1917), image in the public domain.

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