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


that words can’t tell

Our imaginations just can’t quell

Awe and wonder through all time

these things we can only

call sublime