Saturday, January 21, 2017

How a butterfly

How a butterfly came to rest here I know not
or how she became your hand when mine

(poor wingless thing)

seemed about to die
I know not

nor do I know
what else to say or sing


is there a single thing in me
you really need?

Friday, January 20, 2017

All the world’s children

On the most painful of days,
all the world’s children come forth bearing flowers:
red for blood, the rest for those blind
to the depth of their powers.

Friday, January 13, 2017

A line for the times

Someday, perhaps, the unhappiest and most destructive of our kind will simply be loved by the rest of us into grace — caressed, as it were, by the whole human race. Now, look at the face. Look, and then ask yourself: Am I willing to love? Or am I above such tragic disgrace? And: If I am above, how came I to be so unlike the truth I proclaim — that we all still belong, however far we have strayed?

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Less a tightrope walker

Less a tightrope walker or juggler, more a snowflake or butterfly.

And then, when you least expect it, a man, in a grave, at the end.

That’s when his bones dance without help from his skin.

Don’t think it sad. Be a friend. Look in.

And don’t think me mad, if that’s what I am.

Think me flower, or ball, or pin.

Think me weightless.

Or melting.

Yes. Think of me then.