
I leave notes in them
Who said I’m going to market
Words, I’ve heard, are free
I leave notes in them
Who said I’m going to market
Words, I’ve heard, are free
Patience
he said
Read slow
my words
I will linger here
Pondering
what it is
You think you know
I found a book there
in darkness
amidst the rubble
four poems
heat and woman
strength in struggle
survival songs
I hear the chorus rising
carry on
I stopped a moment
to bask in sunlight
Remove my hat and
lay my good book briefly down.
A book arrives when you invite it
some part of you within
awake while you lay still deep sleep dreaming
A voice calls out in whisper or shouts
some part that’s missing
maybe unknown or things you thought you already figured out
A wave from a small open hand raised from
some boat adrift in high waves
inviting a stranger wandering alone on the beach
An open mouth changing shape singing
some song you have yet to hear
whose melody awaits you to write it when your rhythm is more clear
A bark in the distance on a dark night of falling stars
some yellow dog howling at its own shadow
loneliness and euphoria converging in his throat
A book arrives when the windows are open
some butterfly or raging tiger
pausing there on your sill, equally prepared for sunrise or the end.