Wednesday, December 24, 2008


Life holds out her hand
arrayed with gems and charms
even as we are looking
up and down and

all around for
that one thing
we're fixed upon while
all that is precious is going
going and then gone.

How many a prize
has flown?
How many open hands
how many momentary
feasts forgone? I see

I missed
most of my time with my father
and others--places. The children
grown, the greens are brown. It's all
over before we know it and still

I forget to live
to behold
the dust of the corners
of my sills, to stroke
the clouded panes
the blemished floor

the crooked stairs and door
frames: my home.

Why, I had a home
fruit of the vine
I have a home bread of
I tossed away
for a time--why?--
as if I were mis-
or lost.


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