When.

WHY the DAY STEALS

The poet leans on some tree, or sea, or slope, or cloud of a certain hue for a moment during his life, if circumstance smoothes the road. He’s not welded to others’ confusion. His love, his grasp, his joy have their match in all places he’s never been, nor will ever go, in strangers he’ll never know. When they ply him with prizes-those that would bind-and praise him with voices raised, invoking the stars, he responds that he comes from the country next door, from the sky just now engulfed.

The poet gives life then runs to the plot’s dénouement.

At night, despite dimples in cheeks like a novice, he cuts short his goodbyes – polite passerby-to be there when the bread leaves the oven.

Rene Char

Thank you, Sonja.