Marion Dane Bauer

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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