Monday, February 14, 2011

poem

Last minutes of work,

a mistake sends me into a rage.

One cut too many with a knife

(like a word) and all seems lost.

At least until it's fixed, with another cut of the knife

or a different design

pulled from the mind and the eye and the hand

and a love to make things right and beautiful.

Or so I'm reminded

to let an anger go

become a momentary disappointment

and become tomorrow when I return

something better than intended. Not merely fixed.

Or so I'm reminded, catching my breath, rereading

the words you sent me last night.

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