Poet at Fifty:

Let me write myself

in a corner

and, dare to call it my own:

Its textures were dimpled at birth;

and, the eyes have always had it.

Let whatever wisdom carried

refashion

more stately clothes.

**

Let the Light that shines on all

be ever in my grasp.

**

I praise this day

and my lonely soul

and whatever

its captured;

its worth.

w.H.b ~Copyright, o2/12/o9~