Arts + Scene » Poetry




We can go back to that place,
let's believe in it, where ferns drip
and the little winter wrens drink then sing.
Our hands will be warm and clasped together,
our muscles, electric, our eyes as fast and blue
as the birds we try to follow into the sky.
Yes, there are the terrible wars
and the terrible words, but we won't let
what's been done and said
follow. It's morning. We can feel the cool fog
touch our skin and our skin touch back,
hear the quail cooing and shuffling
out of the woods, smell the chai tea,
taste the sweet jellied toast,
see a whole day, lush with time and choice,
still ahead of us.

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