by Malcolm J. Brenner
If I could reach inside and staunch the flow
of pain that wells like fountains from your heart,
the angry ghosts that wander to and fro’
and drive the wedge that forces us apart
would cease, their restless ramblings finished.
Bright beams, the warmth of rich brown earth
would bind those wounded spirits, and as your pain diminished
the fountains that so fiercely vent and flow
would dwindle to a babbling limpid brook
where, by sighing willows birds call home
we’d bide a while and live our lives unbound
by what those chilly phantoms hid, or took.
– For Vera
Written October, 1995/Recovered from memory May 29, 2020 © Malcolm J. Brenner
Please address requests for reprint rights to the author, address at malcolmbrenner.com
Malcolm J. Brenner 