Please

Igor Goryachev — unsplash.com

To the thieves that wrest my thoughts
from me; to the worried hollow lit trees
swaying breeze to breeze across the crowded
traveled road, I ask but let me be.

Let me form with the soft red clay found deep
in gullies and cracks what would be offered
lest taken. Crafting with hands the wheel my father
showed to me when he was a young man too.

We should never need to learn to cry.
To stutter our eyes open letting tears
pull their weight down and out. At two
or three we were masters. At four
or five we were clad in royal blue.

Hearing storms on the horizon
the natural tendency is to shut
the windows. Lock the doors.
Hunker down. Be safe. Be safe please.

Read more from G. Blake Harrison-Lane

~ And Poetry After Dark