by Ethel Mortenson Davis
One moment of madness
in a thousand is enough
when the brain slips
back into some old wound,
a wound made almost painless
by the shading of years.
Yet the old grooves
are easily found—
like a seal of shame
worn open in the sun.
And in the splitting of madness
all is lost to one emotion,
but regained
in the clear-formed thought
as seeing the precious stone
occasionally in deep rock.
fourwindowspress 