prose poetry

be not angry with me
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
i saw the clouds among the hills
come down at dawn from windless hills
do not grieve that it is over
we lay
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
with joy and wonder
the ships are lying in the bay
when the hours of day are numbered
she heard the children playing in the sun
for truth, for love
one with you