Though leaves come late against the door,
There’s no one asks to know
Of each where each has gone before
But they will come and go.
As senseless as to ask the brook
The reason for its visit,
As though the waters undertook
To be what water isn’t.
Permit the stone to be a stone
The heart to be the heart—
Some things are better left unknown
Together or apart.
May 22, 2024
by me, Patrick Gillespie
I’ve been struggling with a back injury (along with a passage in WistThistle, Along the Way). That’s made my writerly pace hard to keep. It’s also meant cancelling carpentry jobs. That’s okay. My heart has gone out of anything but writing. I owe my readers two posts on Emily Dickinson—one comparing Dickinson and Shakespeare—but in the meantime here’s a poem for your enjoyment.
PoemShape 