Thursday, September 24, 2009
by Sandra Cookson
Every song a lovesong,
a light in the hills where bonedust
fluoresces into fearful bloom.
Yours is the hopeful song;
It would not fan the flame
or snuff the wick,
but humming all together be the conduit,
the baker standing back
to wipe the flour from his hands.
Posted over on News From Nowhere
from THE SLEEP OF GRASS: The Tribute in Poetry to William Stafford.