Posted on 13 February 2010

The last curve of road before the wooden gate
where firewood blooms. Faint strains of music.
Forgiveness growing in the ashes of argument.
The one right word, gleaming. The deep blue
throat of the gold rimmed china cup. And I,
I who have been witness to dull sorrow,
but also privileged to the heart’s inexplicable
lifting, say a hundred times a day, let it rise.

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