some days
some days
some days you have to turn off the news and listen to the bird or
truck or the neighbor screaming out her life. you have to close all the
books and open all the windows so that whatever swirls inside can leave
and whatever flutters against the glass can enter.
some days you have
to unplug the phone and step out to the porch and rock all afternoon and
allow the sun to tell you what to do.
the whole day has to lie ahead of
you like railroad tracks that drift off into gravel.
some days you have
to walk down the wooden staircase through the evening fog to the river,
where the peach roses are closing, sit on the grassy bank and wait for
the two geese.
by philip terman
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