Let plain things please you again
and every ordinary Monday.
Bean soup in a white bowl,
firewood in your arms.
The weight of longing.
That you have survived is evidence
that nothing is assured
but you are lucky.
Looking up from this page
let all of it surprise you—
piled mail, other people, the air.
Posted by kind permission of the poet. To learn more, visit poetryforge.
I grew up in a family that did not tell the story. I am listening…
a body is always a body individual or collective (whole or in many pieces) alive…
The water is one thing, and one thing for miles. The water is one thing,…
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