And yet

the world has me too:
its dips and rises, that
light I chase from one
end of the day to the other,
the always-beginning-again
a needle that threads floss
through loop after loop
in a chain making daisies
and clouds and rain—
So near sometimes, so close
to gossamer joy I think
almost if I closed my eyes
I might find, by feel,
the coat that I rent,
the love that was lost,
the house that the years
ransacked to ruin.


In response to small stone (229).

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