Poems for the Smiling Heart


© Photo courtesy of Zo Alschuler


Perhaps the star remembers its birthing inside a nebula nursery
and the primeval granite, the rubbing of ancient ice receding
and the deer its winter hair hanging on a budding branch.


With my good fortune I lie inside a memory
that is as clear as a glasswing butterfly:
One early morning long ago
you gently touched my arm and said,
“Come. Let’s go down to the water
and watch the glorious Light rising.”


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