What can you tell me of the body's myriad exhaustions, the effort it takes to wear its wounds without complaint, as though it were the lightest of garments? Father, once you told me the way through thickets of misfortune is to step on a thorn with one foot only, so the other can reach towards a medallion of moss. But at the end of the day I wish to be the vessel that gratefully accepts whatever small balm of oil or water is left over, instead of a whetstone against which others come to sharpen the blade of their own unending sorrow.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.