The sky’s crisp blue curls through me,

Drawing these words

From the chaff of the world.


I’m tossing through my past’s what and when;

Trying to rejoin its parts;

Wondering whether this maple’s shade

Will ever cool me.


I breathe deeper, pause; try to patch

Past lives together; erase chance; but so much

Remains shapeless, strewn.


Perhaps it’s best not to reweave frayed skins.


But I’m trying to gauge the wealth of these days.

Is it high or low?


I’m also looking ahead,

Wondering which part of beyond, if any, I’ll share;

Or whether the shadow of this maple

Fits the tree.


by Joseph Murphy 




Joseph Murphy has had poetry published in a number of journals, including The Gray Sparrow, Third Wednesday and The Sugar House Review. He is also a poetry editor for an online publication, Halfway Down the Stairs.


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