The Wounded

And then there are all the wounded

The poor the deaf the lonely and the old

Whom I have roughly dismissed

As if I were not one of them…

Remember them. I beg you to remember them

When winter is over

And all your unimaginable promises

Burst into song on death's bare branches.

 

Anne Porter

Photo by Sam Burriss on Unsplash

Photo by Sam Burriss on Unsplash

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What Do People Do?

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The Risk to Grow