Poem by Edith Mirick

Dearth

He had been cursed, like Midas,
With the golden touch.  Where his hand rested
Was minted metal and its accumulation,
Scoffing essayed control attested
The magic of his touch.
Multitudes bent before him to implore
His bounty.  Though it flowed unmeasured,
More there was still ... and more
Like sea sands treasured
By ageless seas, uncounted and untold;
And still beneath his hands
All things were gold ... and gold ... and gold!
Only his God, to whom his secret prayer was said,
Might hear his famished cry for water and for bread.

1. Tragedy
2. Deirdre
3. Home
4. Night Moths
5. Closed Doors

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