Thursday, January 19, 2017



I flash a distress signal, my body alert 
and dancing beneath the sky.  I bring strangers
into the fold of my attention.  Long walks
in the woods carry the world—the sad, receding
claim of sight born without intention.
All the trees take root in the rocks.  The only thing
left to love is myself, and I have all night to grow
warm by that fire.  The worry of other evenings
sparkles and shines through my eyes.  Gratitude
gives me over to the new light, the new way
of seeing, where every branch and stump radiates
rain-slicked luster.  The whole world is sick with visions.
I move through its fever, to the caw of a crow.
My black lashes bat.  The hay fields come into focus
and settle everything seen.  I am not the one working
for this dream.  More and more remains to be heard
when I walk through the pasture that was once
a village and a place to come home to.

Joel Fry

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