I’d like a small amount
of kindness. A silver dish
of helpful offerings from a place
that’s humble. I grew to understand
that shoulders are made for lifting
up the young. I am not accustomed
to begging. We help each other.
The sight of chopped wood
in the back of a pickup trucks reminds
me of the warmth of a potbellied stove.
Shards of kindling in the floor, being
careful of the splinters.
I grew to understand that small
kindnesses are what life’s built on,
that holding on to past bitterness
poisons the spirit, drags down the
face, lays sagging on the talk
like a tired dog, long baying,
now hoarse, at empty wind.
More at http://jddehartwriting.blogspot.com.