The Present Speaks of Past Pain
It's that hour of dusk
when the sky is awash
in waning light, when, if we might
forgive each other, this would be
the hour for it.
I lay down beneath a yellow tree.
I understand I could hold on to the past
or be happy.
Then, nothing. You did not appear to me.
The sky filled with stars
that had been there already.
Maya C. Popa
Wound Is the Origin of Wonder