Like Mangum’s secrets
sleeping in winter clothes
Or the droplets from frost
on the tip of your nose
They are treasures
that words can’t tell
For they speak in volumes
all by themselves
Like the Who’s guitars in Tommy
Your mother’s comfort
when you still called her mommy
These things that somehow
transcend time
We can only call sublime
Warning intuitions
that come oblique
The flippant charm
of Richard Dawson’s cheek
Those memories stored
that words can’t tell
for they speak in volumes
by themselves
Another soul’s treasured past
stored in a room
Passed on to another
that their spirit resume
These gifts of favor, not fruit of crime
we can only call sublime
When carpet crawlers
find their storied light
The first peak of dawn
after a tempest night
Revelations
that words can’t tell
Our imaginations just can’t quell
Awe and wonder through all time
these things we can only
call sublime