It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?
Posted with kind permission of the poet. From Another River: New and Selected Poems, Amherst Writers and Artists Press.
So many colors abandon the earth, and go skyward to the trees like origami birds,…
may there be a listening rather than a making curiosity over expectation, lightness and ease,…
Over the hills in the north, the lake comes into view—azure blue water. At first…
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