Monday October 03, 2011

Dawn. A migrant wood thrush flits from branch to branch along the edge of the woods. In the yard, a grown fawn nuzzles its mother’s neck.

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  1. HOME

    Sometime, somehow, this heart
    must learn to stop on some sill.
    Flitting, it will not find its perch,
    like the migrant wood trush,
    flying from branch to branch—
    nowhere as happy as the fawn
    nuzzling its mother’s neck
    at the edge of the woods where
    home is. Will this heart soon
    find its dawn, its perch, its home?

    — Albert B. Casuga
    10-03-11


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