By Tom Merrill
While morning yet was rose, not thorn, earth glistening as if newly born, I came across a romance here: he hadn't seen the shadows clear, nor seemed to be at all aware; she watched, and was content to stare. I thought of how a love began, of Eden, too, the dawn of man and how that garden turned to grief; of sorrow borne without relief; and yet, I did not fail to bless the tainted cup of happiness, nor reverently to tiptoe by this sleeper in the flower's eye.
Poems by Tom Merrill have recently appeared in two novels as epigraphs.He is Poet in Residuum at The Hypertexts and Advisory Editor at Better Than Starbucks.
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