Eons
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
The centuries long committed to the sound
Of silence have forgotten colors too.
We cannot know these times. They are a mound,
That opened, offers nothing to our view
Or so few the relics that they might as well
Be nothing like a hint. Long winters will
Have come and gone. The fire hearth’s heated smell
Is absent. Springs that started out as chill
Affairs and turned to blossoms left no trace.
Short summers had their sunshine heat
But sunshine left a blank. The centuries’ face
Is featureless. It is as if deceit
Has turned their sun disks into blankness much
As though they never were. They cannot touch.