The Machine

Deep in a wood of pines
he labors through stale dawn
her arrival possessing his mind
unaware of Fates withdrawn,

The silence stretches out of range
as pause of hand brings lonesome pain
this little machine he builds all day
to shield his soul from her delay.

One Response to “The Machine”

  1. C. says:

    I love this poem. But there might be a bit of bias going on…

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