Here, late, middle, age,
the trees mean more
and the sky means more
and some of the people
I need to patch up with are dead.
Mystery, that forest, is expanding.
Remember when we were little,
and the trees were city,
and the baby birds fell from nests
into pools of yellow on sidewalks?
We placed them in shoe boxes,
to contain death somehow,
and we sang to them,
ringing rosies around them.
That’s what today was like.
The songs helped.
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Marjorie Stelmach says
I keep reading and re-reading this wonderful poem, finding more to admire each time. Thank you, Gale.
P. S. Susan, it’s the perfect photo to accompany this poem.
Gale Walden says
Thank you, Marjorie.
Collegeville Institute says
Thanks, Marjorie! It’s a photo of our farm…