February 22

F e b r u a r y 2 2

Early morning, still dark Outside my bedroom window. Freezing rain drizzles down Glazes trees and telephone wires Windows, the grass, a homeless Man’s shiny blue tarp stretched Between two abandoned cars In a field in the middle of nowhere. I hear my old friend nine years gone Walking through the attic; all day I see him pushing a cart Full of books he’s written on How nature will save us How our brains are not just wires Attached to a machine How our hearts were made To be broken, to love and be loved, Again and again. When I take Your hand in mine, it is his hand I’m taking; when I say your name It is his. One day soon, the sun Will rise over wildflowers blooming. If you lie down on the earth And listen carefully enough You’ll be able to hear a bluebell Ringing. …

for Paul Gruchow