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. . . “a Poem Written on the Stars”

For all my writerly friends who think poetry is dead, you have to read this story from today’s NY Times:

“From a Familiar Stranger . . . “

Dream – Nightmare

He wore a bright white tee and black pants,

walking my small self hand-in-hand

to the swings in the park.

We were in black-and-white.

I laughed and skipped,

using his arm as a trapeze.

He lifted me lightly under my arms

to hoist me onto the swing chair–

the old flat boards painted each summer.

He pushed me high into the trees

until I took over pumping my legs hard

to reach the cloud I had my eye on.

He grew smaller and smaller

as the swing released from its chains

flying me up into a dark starred vortex.