Only a handful of great sonnets have been written by members of my generation, and many of us regard this poem by Dick Davis as the best we have to show.
Baucis and Philemon
Life lies to hand in hoe, spade, pruning knife,
Plain wooden furniture and wattle walls,
In those unspoken words, "my husband," "wife,"
In one another's flesh which still recalls
Beneath the map of age their savored youth.
It is an ambience in which they move
Having no need to grasp or grub for truth;
It is the still persistence of their love.
That one should die before the other's death
And drain the world of meaning is their fear:
Their hope, to draw together their last breath
And leave the sunlight on a common bier.
Life is the meaning and the bread they share;
Because they need no Gods, the Gods are there.
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