the
inside of the poem again
so
the poem
is
the safe haven grays
a
mask, laden in the haze
of
every color and want
the
places I retreat to
when
the world seems
a
crushing spot to be
this
is where I go
when
I need to empty
into
a place where
the
well can run dry
and
the grasses can burn
turning
to a brown weep
in
Autumn’s quiet,
cold
seep of an embrace
of
ritual erase
the
pace of painting
night
after night
stills
my mind’s hectic race
where
Summer is every woman
in
a rocking chair dream
nodding
as we go to our knees
cloud
seeding what can be
strung
to time
moments
one
to the next
outside
open windows
the
piper, paper and pen
can
stand empty handed
like
a waiting expression
left
to wonder
when
is it safe
to
be outside
the
inside
of
the poem again
EJR
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