for Herbert ClanceyLike the signature in maplewood
of sun-splashed rain,
this man’s bright pattern must remain
beside the workbench where he stood
smoothing the grain.
Deprived of work, he would not rest
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The Skunk (Psalm 23) I am anointed too, brushed with his broad mark. He leads me safely through the alley in the dark. The Mockingbird (Psalm 98) Hub of the whirligig, he is my perch and poise. I pour from a high twig a round of joyful noise. The Sheep (Psalm 119) Tepid, woolly, I stray, leaving . . . . Continue Reading »