Our stories lie down in the orchard,their time is not now, but something is
coming, something is going away. They
rise to the stars, and wait to be told.
There are listeners who know how little
we know, how much we are feeling.
There are listeners who know how little
we know, how much we are feeling.
We had to go our own way, a little off course,
always, no matter how specific the directions
seemed at the time. In this universe if we’re lucky,
always, no matter how specific the directions
seemed at the time. In this universe if we’re lucky,
we will live in our children’s stories,
their tales that will turn us to legend,
some absurd truth that has nothing to do
their tales that will turn us to legend,
some absurd truth that has nothing to do
with our plans, our meticulous records.
No matter what stories we discard or keep,
they will give us a life we cannot imagine.
No matter what stories we discard or keep,
they will give us a life we cannot imagine.
Sunday Poetry from The Light of Invisible Bodies
by Jeanne Lohmann
by Jeanne Lohmann
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