July 6, 2017Home
for Gene, turning 75
Bring me all the synonyms for husband but don’t
expect me to find the one I need. It’s buried
in a medieval story I once read about Bede,
the monk who fell asleep and dreamed a sparrow
flew in a window facing east, swooped across
the room, and out a window west. Glide and gone,
the Irish poet put it, calling the little space
between dawn and stardust our brief home.
Home—the private journal where we learn who
we are by recording who we love. Home—
where we are cozy breathing silence, and where,
growing old, we grow easier to see through.
from #18 - Winter 2002