each room is a waiting room
Above: the forgotten vignettes of constellations.
On the river, the ache-song of a slow thaw;
Each stone, anchored, measures the same hour.
I hitched home, which means I walked most the way.
After a while, each journey is thread spun from distance and sleet.
Moon on the pond like an open door.
After a while, each room is a waiting room.
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Poem ©2010 Eric Pankey, all rights reserved. Used by permission of the author and publisher Milkweed. Film ©2012 Motionpoems, Inc., all rights reserved.