I kind of ask your forgiveness. The intention of writing a letter like this one each day is beginning to wear on me. And I'm sorry, kind of. The "kind of" is more resolute for Wendell Berry. He calls me to chain myself to a tree, as in this line from his poem, How to be a Poet:
Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
I'm starting to feel him. Sitting in front of an electrically-currented machine daily is not a desire of mine, plus it pulls on me like a tired three-year-old. So, I hope to keep writing for a few more days, if not but for me. Don't be surprised though when there are no more posts. At that point you can trust that I've picked up a pen and paper.
No Repair Needed
This poem will not end with
The word I search for to
Explain away the
Old arousal within.
Resurfacing more frequently
But now through
Green song beyond
The winter binge
That gives me briny
Eyes of soul than I ever knew
Could be in a sort
Like me, one so akin
To Judas. Caring for
Pocket change I thought grew
Into long money with time.
It doesn’t. To win
Nothing is my prize.
To eat the hollow stew
That promises to nourish
Is an act of Hope… again.
Well there it is. Manna called Hope.
The word from nowhere
Looked for. With a half grain of
Salt to help me begin.
