Replenished
Whenever roused with grief
or shaken by the cynic’s cry,
I feed on your words and warmth
then wonder why I stood so long
held by the darkened grip.
For in your subtle bend
and caressing voice,
the rain is petty, as are all the
drunk and desolate things that
send my spirit heaving.
Whenever lost
in the crushing swirl
where sick and mindless crowds
roam, I draw up your face
from my memory’s well and
am eased, believing once again
through fear and disappointment.
Copyright © 2000 by Allison Grayhurst
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