Reading the last book
the poet’s work collected late
the garden’s harvest
green and gold long after
the gardener goes to dirt,
the careful, loving labor from
friends and family tending the wishes for
words and papers left behind,
seeing only growing things
seeds and leaves and love
that living well allots.
Art is only the shared ache of
seeing something you need to show,
the eye of the scrub jay,
the wing of the crow.
The joy of being where you’re wanted
when it’s where you want to be.
The guitars and the galleries,
the journey always ending with
the beauty finding
the way back home.
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