Category: A Poem

 

Reading the Wife of the House Proof


I meet myself some 30 years ago,
so many sharp edges
and plain language
familiar as a blank page
about to tell what has been hidden.

I don't know whether to be
astonished or ashamed
of who I imagined I had been.

The ash tree rains leaves
ten days to the end
of yet another month waiting
for the slightest shower....
I jubilate when a damp, night fog
feeds gratitude

after the sudden death
of delusion,
and as deer pluck the garden
back to the heart of green,
I am glad to help.



Gudrun


 

A Poem

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