A Gentle Reader
I say a prayer--for books to carry me
imagining ballads sweet at lunchtime
in an inventory of lives, distant loves
and for plain books to cry to at night
how light is soft and rich like a fire
how it smolders at the beginning
how embers fade like falling love
stranded in the chaos we've made
we think wars are everywhere as usual
within and without--as we like to say--
see shields surrender, becoming songs
in books that have already cast me out
Pic: Hyacinths, heady with scent, are coming up all over the house in various pots and things I stuck them in. (Here: game table in the tea garden; our outside is still wet and muddy.)