How long your closet held a whiff of you, Long after hangers hung austere and bare.I would walk in and suddenly the trueSharp sweet sweat scent controlled the airAnd life was in that small still living breath. Where are you? Since so much of you is here, Your unique odour quite ignoring death. My hands reach out to touch, to hold what's dearAnd vital in my longing empty arms. But other clothes fill up the space, your space, And scent on scent send out strange false alarms. Not of your odour there is not a trace. But something unexpected still breaks throughThe goneness to the presentness of you.
Madeleine L'Engle
poetry
We cannot always cry at the right timeand who is to say which time is right?
poetry crying
To grow upis to findthe small part you are playingin the extraordinary drama written bysomebody else.
Poetry, at least the kind I write, is written out of immediate need; it is written out of pain, joy, and experience too great to be borne until it is ordered into words. And then it is written to be shared.
poetry pain experience
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