White

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The white bloom in the meadow has no name.

White stripes on grasses have no name.  They should

Not. They are holy. Whiteness has no blame.

It tends to each infinity.  The wood

Has whiteness flashing on its inner stream

Where sun shoots through.  This whiteness glints and goes.

It disappears.  It comes and dies.  Christ’s dream

Is like this.  Whites are sacred.  Dying glows

Are saints among the woodland shadows.  White

Seeks everywhere.  It seeks.  It finds.  Its view

Is deep.  The shadows, stream and blooms are slight

Beside its holiness, this whiteness, true.

  The greens and other colors come and go.

    The whiteness, sacred, comes again as snow.

~ Phillip Whidden