Wind gusts
my kitchen window,
plucks
a long-covered note
from beneath a magnet,
thrusts it at my feet.
I feel you don’t listen to me,
or hear what I say,
complains my old lover
from across the years.
Pierced,
I sink
to the floor.
How
can this still
be happening?
For comment, let me offer a recent poem from Mary Oliver (who says, “In my sleep I dreamed this poem.”):
The Uses of Sorrow
Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.
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