If this isn't nice, I don't know what is...

First off, I would like to say farwell to National Poetry Month(farewell, National Poetry Month!). I, for one, had a very productive NPM without knowing it for the first...many days.

In farwell to this most joyous of occasions(to which I bid adieu, coincidentally enough, spending the evening dabbling in prose) I have another poem by someone else and a teeny bit by myself.

From Nabokov's Pale Fire...

"All colors made me happy: even gray.
My eyes were such that literally they
Took photographs. Whenever I'd permit,
Or, with a silent shiver, order it,
Whatever in my field of vision dwelt--
An indoor scene, hickory leaves, the svelte
Stilettos of a frozen stillicide--
Was printed on my eyelids' nether side
Where it would tarry for an hour or two,
And while this lasted all I had to do
Was close my eyes to reproduce the leaves,
Or indoor scene, or trophies of the eaves."
-Stanza Three, Canto One

I believe that we are both boomerangs designed for one another and that now,
Though we continually riccochet away from one another,
We will one day meet in middair.
(Do not tell me you don't know what that means.)

(From a long set of meditations I've been doing on this ever-elusive quality that has been termed, by some, America)

I call myself fond of you, America,
Would you call yourself fond of me?
As a child, I had a continuous desire to fall in love with all whom I met, keeping a special place in (indent)my heart so often for those I'd been told were now unworthy.
But I grow older, wiser still and see that only a few, in fact, have want of my ever fiery passion,
And that those who do so seldom desire it for long.
America, are you one of them?
I have fallen in love with your spring and yet it leaves me tainted with desire.