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Henry Raeburn
Portrait of Ms. Eleanor Urquhart
Day seasons its end
with crumbs of stale bread
salty upon my tongue
lodging between teeth
taking up residence in tiny pockets,
and remind me of
the unfolding lamp of the morning to
come
when the heart’s manna
lying fresh
opens again
into the promise of the day
strewn with honey and herb
to heighten flavor
and smooth
its path.
These crumbs I reserve for later--
Ziplocked--
for ends
for loneliness
for promises made
and blithely spent.
I hold the currency of day’s end.
