Friday, March 31, 2017


In your hands you are reading a poem
that no one has read before.  I wrote
it for you, to be given at the right moment.

In your hands you are reading poetry
that belongs to you.  I wrote them for you
because I don't know what to do with them.
I kept them in a box, in journals and blogs,
for years because I was scared that you
wouldn't want them.  Scared that you already
had found a poem to read.
But, here it is; here they are.

I know that you miss your home:
the garden you started when it was just dead grass;
Median plants, your attempts to create
a forested mountain, rivaled that of
Nebuchadnezzar himself.
I want you to take this poem and plant it.
I want you to read this poem and let it grow,
Amytis, and let it surround you.
It is in your hands now, so that after
I am gone, these Babylonian gardens
will survive the earthquakes.

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