Early morning. Fresh air, dark clouds, robin-song. And I ask myself — In this paradise, if I am not ready to die, have I ever really lived?
March 25, 2020
It’s been so long — I think of writing you today.
Do you think of writing me? — And do you wonder what to say?
So many letters set out this way — Like little rafts at sea —
And we — Blind fishermen — Should Odysseus pass this way —
Would he know us by our hunger — Or our bravery?
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces