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Friday, December 7, 2012


Until everyone we love is safe is what you said. I worry a lot; you know this. Lately I've been worrying that John will be in a wreck, for no good reason other than the fact that he's been on the road more frequently, driving home after long days and late night orchestra gigs.


To weep unbidden, to wake
at night in order to weep, to wait 
for the whisker on the face of the clock 
to twitch again, moving the dumb day forward— 

is this merely practice? Some believe in heaven,
some in rest. We’ll float,
you said. Afterward
we’ll float between two worlds—

five bronze beetles
stacked like spoons in one
peony blossom, drugged by lust:
if I came back as a bird I’d remember that—

until everyone we love 
is safe is what you said.

-- Ellen Bryant Voigt 

Do you find yourself worrying about unlikely things?

Almost the weekend. :)


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