Softly
like years in my hands,
and when the hours become
minutes again, I will commend
my mother’s pain to the bright sunlight.
She will not find it there,
nor any other fear
that preys upon her sleep at night.
Only the breeze, calling softly
from the end of the world,
and the peace of an infinite lullaby.
July 10, 2006
Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author
Main Page
Author’s Note
Background
Notebook
A Listening Thing
Among the Living
No Time to Cut My Hair
One Hand Clapping
Songs and Letters
Collected Poems
Early Short Stories
Armenian Translations
Interviews
News and Reviews
Highly Recommended
Let’s Eat
Favorite Books & Authors
Useless Information
Conversation
E-mail & Parting Thoughts
Flippantly Answered Questions