Wednesday, August 6, 2014

New poet

The Next Day

There are times when as a writer
you must practice forbearance.
Some evenings the pall of death
is so heavy halfway around the world
that you search for paper and pen
to try and make your sense of it.
Better to go mow the emerald grass
in diagonal rows and pull purple thistles
from the fence and startle the grey rabbit
beneath the shade tree and speak to your
very much alive neighbors as they walk by
while the summer wind chills the sweat inching
down your back and for reasons unknown
you suddenly recall the sinful smell of your
grandfather’s tobacco mingled with the
memory of the tears in your wife’s eyes
as the doctor placed your firstborn son in the
crook of her arm and life demanded on.

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