SPACES
The pen leaves a streak across the journal page,
outside the garbage men brave the isolation of space
in a time of quarantine working in silence,
I watch them silently from three stories above, writing
out the space I want to discover in my morning hours.
What is to be said as a breeze meets my face?
what can I write about the wistful sounds of machine
but not human voices, they are in the space that yesterday held
and so a book will speak today, holding forth a meeting
of the present and what may yet be tomorrow.
Spaces have come to all in this city, this world
spaces by garden, window, high-rise
singing or deep in thought, prayers and daydreams lifted up
beyond clouds...
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