I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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The blinds are closed.
Winter is here, as always
Looking like the bare tree and the fruitless bush.
The sky today is a damp, industrial gray,
Making the day seemingly silver
When really it is zinc.
Inside the world goes on whirling
In its confusions about heaven and hell.
As I drink my morning tea
I’m accused by the clock of failure,
And by the empty sheets of paper
Of irresponsibility, and accused
By the window of self-love.
Who could go to heaven, whimpering
And hidden as I am, with my disorders
Of psyche, my fraudulent life?
In the Old Testament I would have lived
Among many like me,
As I do now.
Robert P. Cooke