Bio Note: Occasionally, when intoxicated by a full moon or a smoked brisket, I write something other than a love poem although we all know that all poems are love poems, right?
the sun has now arrived where it intended before our knowing knew knowing chickadees house hunting outside my living room they must be compatible look at them go on the other side of the glass i’m still searching for love near spring’s last morning fire wondering about lunch
i often think it loud yet keep it quiet since it’s a non-starter though i don’t really know or understand why she lost her life-lover he died so much younger refusing all treatment blind to their needs to grow grief she’s the mother to twins sons forty and counting one called her a whore while his father was silent reminds me of mine I follow her movements her words as they gentle uncontained kindness it flows to the river where she sits on a boulder she’s a new kind of angel full of passion to bursting she gives away money to convicts and homeless without saying prayers I speak to her daily whether she knows it or doesn’t I’m her official historian I record her in poems they arrive in odd moments after stillness and air
©2022 Tom Weiss
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