shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Richard Widerkehr

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Deep In May

on the anniversary of my mother's death

Wind fills the alders, deep in May,
as if it didn't know any other song,
and certain wells can't open until
something under the wind tells them to.

A song no ring can wed, neither flesh
nor smoke, it waits, whether to enter
or forget, I can't say. Enter and forget?
Guess we say things we can't see,

the wind and I. Anyway, I don't mind
if the wind, thin as my mother's wrist,
has twigs and red birds to give

someone else. When it bends
the branches and one of us listens,
perhaps the other one rests.