Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
I TOUCH THE PAGES HERE AND THERE
The sun is fading, the sky now that grayish blue
with specks of sunset resting
upon an impending night.
The last of your poems are still left to read
and I hesitate, knowing that when finished
will no longer weave through my thoughts.
I touch the pages here and there
as if the words will sink into my veins
like rain into brown and yellow roots
and erase the silence
of my darkness.
Night has drifted across the room.
I wait, listen,
close my eyes
and remember the sound
of my own breathing.
I cry for all the poems I never wrote.
And for the ones you have.
Karyn M. Wolven, Biscayne Park, Florida
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