Twelve Years


I heard David Whyte read his poems seven years ago

and again recently.

Now, as then, he spoke of his dear friend

and fellow poet, John O’Donohue, long since dead.

Deep missing was evident in David’s stories;

I could feel it in between the lines of his verse.

Somehow, still,

John seems integral to the redemption of the man living.

I could not help but think of you

and your relationship with my Earl,

How rumors assure me

that he is still alive in your stories.

How longing hangs heavy

in your words, on your breath.

I admire your dedication.

I honor your faithfulness,

and pray for your release.

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