Artifacts Poetry, Ray Hinman

A Philosopher Is Born in the Tropics

Alone again, the ex-missionary
regards his wine glass, the resort cafe
fills with clientele;;he remains aloof,
inspired by the lights relfection on his glass.

Below the veradas, shouts recall confusions
love never conquered, a girl's laughter,
gibes thorwn too quickly, objects
and events open the soul like a blossom.

He steeps in his own lush thought--
puffs of color fed by moss, by the death
and rebirth of the moon and sun,
nourished but steeping to a wilted lump.

The bond between love and beauty double:
droning waves, speculations, the wheel
that takes the sun and stars around...love traces
it among the skies; God drawn by dots.

But to trace their beauty out in jungle
is to leave the blossom halted, half formed.
Beauty of heaven or a woman's bodym, either side
of love is the patch of light floating in wine.