on this falling edge

tell your autumn self, this fountained day
of wordy unmusical frustration is nothing
to regret. ask your winter self, who will make
work of the past? what is your spring self
but an ideal to grope for, in sympathy
with the young? you let those hours go.
(see the spiders already moving in, rose-hips,
crickets?) no need to reinvent or be clever
in your acts of love. your voice—broken,
burning, sleep-rough, shrill—will be here,
a sun-pledge.

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24 thoughts on “on this falling edge

    1. Thank you, that means a lot, from you! I am still reading Hafiz…the book is set up as one short poem each day. I’m also reading Kate Atkinson (novels), who plays a lot with timelines/possibilities. I guess it’s all seeping in. 🙂

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