hearth
whistling wind sanding her way into my head
tide’s frigid depth unrelentless,
secret-whispering, like the notebook you keep
hidden in your dresser
lists of lovers by lovers
shrapnel threatening this statue of a face
chip by chip until the only lines you can read:
despite cold or calamity, hurricane or hail,
home’s hearth persists.
Monday, January 05, 2009
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