the painted water

I’d ask you once again, but Lord, I know
How everything arrays itself on you:
That’s friends, and troubles, dynamite, and dust,
That’s beauty, glory, gratitude, and grief,
A multitude, a plethora of all
That makes the world seem bigger than our hearts.
So by the painted water sit awhile:
There is a smear, a smudge, a drip, a stain,
And many other patterns for the soul
That’s come unmoored, that feels itself adrift.
So think of how the music sounded when
The truck rolled by in summers as a child,
And feel how kind can be delivery,
And why the chasing’s worth it, after all.

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