Bryde

Well, I'm off to St. Catherines, Ontario, to visit two old friends. In fact, two of the best people I know. I haven't seen them for two years, and I am absolutely overthrown with anticipation. But the upshot of this is that I won't be around till next Saturday, so I'm posting early this week, and, most likely, late next week. This poem was written as a birthday present (yes, another one) for a friend, currently recovering from an IED in Texas, who deserves just as much love and companionship as we can possibly give him. Whatever we have done for him, he has done more for us.


Bryde

If pipes, and fish, and friends,

and all the finer things

were plentiful as winds

that catch the kestrel's wings,

or counted every star

that shifts across the sky,

so common from afar

and surfeit in supply,

then what would be the worth
of holding each in turn?
The heart cannot make mirth,
unless the heart can yearn.