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.
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Now I understand that there are two melodies playing, one below the other, one easier…
Blackberries hang in the darkest creases of the trellis, each dimpled to bursting. The black-eyed…
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