This Creaking Wagon

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These bones are now but drying dates
shriveling in the sun. In the morning, they
squabble with each other like ravenous lovers.

Yet they are not strangers in my house, uninvited.
Nor are they pack animals, hard on the scent
of death. They still crave the lamp of midnight

stories sweetened with the truth of young wine.
They are still vessels of honey, pouring slowly
their devotions to the last breath.

I used to wake as a baker ready to feed a
village.  Now I rise at dawn as fallen fruit, ripened in
dreams. This creaking wagon, the blessed bounty

of life, one morning shall rise to see the doors gone,
the windows thrown open and the sun shining
through the hole in this roof.

4 comments

  1. I knew you first as a poet, Gary, and so I recognize with clear though moistened eyes the young man who lit up our group of expat poets living in Thailand, striving for excellence. I’m back in Boston, but a slice of my heart still dwells in Chiang Mai. Keep singing, my good friend.

    Like

  2. Gary, What is your cell number? Thinking of you and would love to talk.

    Steve

    On Fri, May 15, 2020, 10:41 AM Spontaneous Presence wrote:

    > garyhorvitz posted: “These bones are now but drying dates shriveling in > the sun. In the morning, they squabble with each other like ravenous > lovers. Yet they are not strangers in my house, uninvited. Nor are they > pack animals, hard on the scent of death. They still crave the ” >

    Like

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