Monday, October 20, 2014

Poem on the train this time last year.

The trees are yellow, orange, candy-red fruit falling, in the morning frost dusts the grass.
On the train the sun shines through the trees, makes leaves look like hammered gold.
I realize that if I focus on waiting, I lose the sweetness of looking
I can't see anything before me-- the same if I think about pictures, 
documenting or whatever.
I sit my chin on the windowsill. Steam from my nose blurs the glass.
I'm looking at the sun, flashing between birches; a window to heaven.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Didn't write this.

"Small Wire"
by Anne Sexton

My faith
is a great weight
hung on a small wire,
as doth the spider
hang her baby on a thin web,
as doth the vine,
twiggy and wooden,
hold up grapes
like eyeballs,
as many angels
dance on the head of a pin.

God does not need
too much wire to keep Him there,
just a thin vein,
with blood pushing back and forth in it,
and some love.
As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.
So if you have only a thin wire,
God does not mind.
He will enter your hands
as easily as ten cents used to
bring forth a Coke.