Dark, and silent.
But in a way so loud you can not bear it.
Trying to imagine what is happening,
that you have not been blessed with the ability to hear.
Close-set and foreboding. Jealously guarding its secrets.
The learned one makes it his path.
The predator, his hunting ground, the prey, its shelter.
So hostile, yet somewhat tame.
So mysterious. Not knowing, knowing all.
From it, nothing is hidden. Yet it willingly hides,
all.
But in a way so loud you can not bear it.
Trying to imagine what is happening,
that you have not been blessed with the ability to hear.
Close-set and foreboding. Jealously guarding its secrets.
The learned one makes it his path.
The predator, his hunting ground, the prey, its shelter.
So hostile, yet somewhat tame.
So mysterious. Not knowing, knowing all.
From it, nothing is hidden. Yet it willingly hides,
all.
(Note by Mom: Whitney is away at our Ward's Girls' Camp this week, but I have included this poem of hers that she wrote in New Zealand. She said the "learned one" made her think of Bro. Solomon, a man in our ward that was a talented bushman and taught Whitney how to catch eels.)
1 comment:
Wow. It's like a riddle. Is that what poetry does to us? I think so. It gives us a puzzle to solve. Nice job Whitney.
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