This Isn’t the Poem

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This isn’t the poem
you wrote last night.
Or the day before yesterday,
or in your sleep
or when you were cranky
or while you laughed
at some of the one-liners
that emerge from your bed.
It’s the one where you moved
the remaining lawn chair
from against a tree
facing the woods
to see the moon instead,
bracketed by dark trunks,
like new parents sleeping
on either side of a babe.
It’s the one where frost
was a confrontation
and loss was a lamentation
and singing was a salutation
and all you had to do was change
your orientation, a vast sky
canopying the tangled vines
saying, you’re small
and should take it all in stride,
thick leaves crunching
underfoot saying, the ground
is always here to hold you.
Lie down when you need to,
look up when you need to,
sometimes both at once,
ashes and dust and the world
was made for you alone,
aloneness a comfort
and aloneness an illusion,
the stars and the leaves,
your breath on the cold
morning air–same thing.

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