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We do not often write of him

although we sense him constantly

leaving his corner

taking a step forward

go back!  we cry – and we inscribe a poem

retreat!   we color a canvas


On days when Nature shrugs its shoulders

shakes dandruff on the earth or screams with hail

we see him hiding behind a lifeless tree

whispering words of frost or ice


Stop work – your labor’s vain and futile

your bricks will crumble, pages tear loose

scatter, sodden illegible, words lost

come rest beside me on this frozen patch

these leaves your blanket, shutting out all pain


And with a wrench we grasp the quill

the brush, the trowel, hammer, strike the nail

attempt to repair our shaking timbers – one more day

one more chance – one more page to write

against the rising wind

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© Johnmichael Simon



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