There is no mistake that we are here
to work together, to hold the fragile in
abeyance and focus on routines we know –
to care with sure and calloused hands
and sort unspoken grief to unseen pens
to haul home like our own stray cattle
when it’s done. Scattered by distance
apart from the world and its tragic
consequences – its sad ambitions
and addictions – we come to celebrate
and revere our skills with the unpredictable
and rise to persevere as one. Sometimes
the heart, or is it the soul that shudders,
or is it the moon at its perigee that pulls
emotions up like swirling tides around us
that we dare not speak for fear of hearing
our own voice quake? Is it age worn thin?
We work around raw and tender parts,
find new ways to hold our rope and rein
until time heals the hole in each of us –
neighbors for a long time – it is our time.
© 2011 Dry Crik Press
drycrikjournal 
Fabulous John! And perfect. You dog—You can damn sure read a poem! Every breath part of complete expression! You waste no time being the poet the rest of us hope to be.
-Sean
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