by
Eric Heller
The spring night folds
into
a twilit April hush
too soon yet for crickets
and toads.
I hold you in my arms
on the wooden porch
the night you are one years
old.
The deep dark fills the
blackening sky.
Dim figures of birds scatter
branches up high.
New buds hang in the heavy
air
that the rain has stilled
to a calming mist.
Breathe.
For these miracles:
For you,
for the mystery surrounding,
for the new buds
pent up with flowers and
green energy
breathe.
Tomorrow you’ll see
what it means to be
alive.
Eric
started out teaching History
and English at colleges
in New Jersey, but after
a few years ended up as
a technical and marketing
writer—much to his
unending surprise. Eric
writes poetry in his spare
time, is considering freelance
writing as a fulltime career,
and has lately begun writing
about himself in the third
person. He lives in New
Jersey with his wife Angel
and two-year-old daughter
Sammy.
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