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Pastimes : A Poetry Corner
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To: ManyMoose who wrote (1213)3/29/2005 9:52:36 PM
From: ManyMoose  Read Replies (1) of 1582
 
Ithaca

A bush by the door is turning red;
a woman walks her dog.
The mailman, in gray, picks through his bag.
A cold wind blows wet leaves.
You are far from home,
but this poem is a safe place.
It’s all right to cry,
here, in someone else’s town.
Heavy ghost, you can recall
the places that you cannot be—
a natural history of vacant lots—
the letters that you cannot send,
the doorways that you cannot cross.
This poem is a safe place.
Let it hold you in its lines
of remembered things—
of all that is lovely and lost—
till you can fold it and mail it
into the wind, your pockets turned out.

Sheila Nickerson
marchstreetpress.com
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