Time wants to show you a different country. It’s the one
That your life conceals, the one waiting outside
When curtains are drawn, the one Grandmother hinted at
In her crochet design, the one almost found
Over at the edge of the music, after the sermon.
It’s the way life is, and you have it, a few years given.
You get killed now and then, violated
In various ways. (And sometimes it’s turn about.)
You get tired of that. Long-suffering, you wait
And pray, and maybe good things come_maybe
The hurt slackens and you hardly feel it any more.
You have a breath without pain. It is called happiness
It’s a balance, the taking and passing along,
The composting of where you’ve been and how people
And weather treated…
View original post 53 more words