Spring's crop.
Four, of Five Healing Poems
There is precious little left of you,
that is not what's left of me.
Barefoot on cold black balcony,
northern sky reflects dimly, watching,
but mostly I just hear that certain sound,
cities make even when silent,
soft roar of a thousand lives breathing.
I focus my gaze to the north.
I add my voice to these thousand threads
sliding noisily across each other.
Will my voice carry this moment?
Do you know I am here?
Do you listen?
I am jealous of these last echoes.
I give out tears sparingly, as even
sadness is now dear to me.
By faith this encounter yet holds seeds,
guarded for early spring.
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