Thursday, June 07, 2007


In my young days, the sap flowed thick
as honey, hardening to scabs
of amber. Now I’ve lost the trick
of flowing seamless round the stabs
and stings of life. The wood’s grown hard.
My rings are narrower each year,
confined by thickened bark and scarred
dead tissue, strictures too severe
for growth.
My sweet child, you may gather
amber drops to string around
your neck—my memories of pain
become you. I’m content. I’d rather
let them go, let them be found
by others. My loss; someone’s gain.

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