Saturday, December 12, 2015


And in the morning if there is no friend again
And if the sky is still wearing her blue-black face
Hiding all those stars and the moon behind her skirt
I at least have poems to read
Books and books of them
A certain form of sustenance itself
So much so that when I finish
Reading a half-dozen or more
I can scarcely think about breakfast
And those fish outside the window in the lake
And that beaver in the lake too
And the eagle flying high overhead
They all know what I’ve just learned
That sometimes
When we are most alone and scared
There are places to go
Words to seek like medicine
And that these can fill our hollow spaces
And heal the wounds we thought
We’d wear forever

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