Saturday, March 26, 2011

Fifth March Selection


In the morning I look out the window.

The juncos are busy in the rain and the wet grass.

It breaks my heart.

I bite into green onions;

their cool sharp taste breaks my heart.

All these things:

the sound of an unseen mandolin, strummed.

It is raining, the sun comes, two crows fly across the sky.

My friend, knowing I am coming to his house, to welcome me, has bought me a gift, a


I am sick and miss meeting with my childhood friends; the next week I am well and they

smile when I enter the room.

My children are so beautiful that to think of them breaks my heart.

I send you a note, I send you something I wrote long ago,

I am saying I love you, you have broken my heart, I am thanking you.

I have asked Coyote about this (on that day a woman named Marie.)

"When the silence descends, my heart is broken.... am I doing something wrong?"

I tell you how She locked on my eyes, fierce, penetrating.

She said, "Amos! How can you be awake in this world and not be broken-hearted!"

You understand: it broke my heart to hear this; it breaks my heart to remember.

Look, I am set free. I become crow growing distant in the sky against the ragged grey clouds.

You see my footprints.

In the cafe a mother is telling her child a story;

"The dog ate the mop, the cat's in a hurry, the hen's in a flurry.”

The boy is wearing a red coat,

the boy laughs.

--Amos Clifford

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