What Waits to be Born
The wind is sharp this morning, the few warm days of summer crowded like sheep into a small pen by the ocean air, cool off
May 29, 2016
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The wind is sharp this morning, the few warm days of summer crowded like sheep into a small pen by the ocean air, cool off
There’s only so much a man can affect, the cut of a board, a wayward child, perhaps so grand as the outline of a city
I don’t recognize myself in the mirror, this profile of an old man; not the one I think I am or feel in the bones
I furrow the ground for a few words, turning them up like turnips plumb and round and white from the dark, waiting for this moment
Let me rise with the morning to join the day as it begins, the long cover of night pulled back with a prayer, lifted from
When the noise becomes too great and the strain of divisions multiply return to the silence, the spring of renewal. Let the cloth of ambition