Answer to a friend about what I write
it's not every six
or 2, 3, 4, 5 months apart
they appear
--little fireflies, little sparks --
they come when they can;
my half thought out thoughts
they bubble up, or float to the top
after death fills them up
but they have to fight
that same long fight we all must make
to find a place
of warmth, of sun, of a smidgen
of light
there often isn't a thing I can say
to give them comfort
or aid
to succor their hopes
or let them give me mine
let's look at the reality they often hide:
sick children, sick hearts, innumerable pains,
loss of dreams, fear of the kind-
ness of strangers and the ill thoughts of friends
let me give you a picture:
walking in the rain,
or the threat of the rain
geese exploding in hundreds
a hundred feet overhead
crying their cry of dismay
the sheer beauty and power of their flight
all because they were afraid
I'll leave you with that -- something close to sublime
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