most of our stories
go untold to those around us
or perhaps they are unheard
misunderstood because they
we are not fluent in each other
it’s unfair I suppose to say
anything about most of our
stories as though they could
be collected in a single volume
the library of humanity isn’t so
easily contained or checked out
we live loose leaf lives our pages
caught in the swirl of circumstance
tell me your despair and I’ll tell mine
Mary said–not that Mary the other
one who was a poet–but even that
is not the whole story of anyone
but we have to start somewhere
not just the living but the telling
a first line that tells the truth
like an invitation or a promise
he was just trying to find his way home
the line could fall in the middle or
the end as far as my story goes
or repeated like a prayer whispered
though unsure if anyone is listening
for most of our stories telling is
not enough we need to be heard
read like a book whose margins are
filled with kindness and curiosity
listening is reader response to
loneliness a way to make meaning
of memories to say more than despair
to say we belong welcome home
Peace,
Milton
NOT FLUENT IN EACH OTHER. Oh-My-Word, what a phrase!