What Is True Is Already So
So Might As Well Speak It
My heart is a small quivering hand,
planting seeds in the dead of winter.
My days are an old dog, prone to wagging,
then quietly laying down to escape in sleep.
My hope is a tall hill of hurt, a train
run off its tracks. A scared squirrel
staring back thru a January window.
Consider how music redeems everything.
How its inner light excites. The way our
bodies know exactly what to do with rhythm.
My courage is a slow sunset, ocean waves
barely singing, the cold sand under my feet,
stretching out for miles. That’s my new home.
–Dale Biron
