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Saturday, April 4, 2015

National Poetry Month

Poem for the day.


This could be a poem about windowed dens
that face the sea, or closets with doors
that dull midnight typewriter racket.

This could be a poem about a camper
parked at Shakori* or the public library
every Wednesday afternoon.

The first word written where and how:
on a cave wall with a fireblackened stick
or carved with a sharp instrument into a tree,

On scrolls of parchment with quilled ink,
recipes for India dye hazardous when
swallowed or pricked into the skin,

With thumb-tapping a virtual keyboard
on glass that looks just like a yellow pad
lined blue, the first few pages torn away.

Like turning away from a closing casket
this poem will be left behind, for the reader
slouched in a hammock or favorite chair.

Mary L. Barnard

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