I'd like to share a poem by Suzanne Hancock from her book Cast from Bells (McGill-Queen's University Press, 2010). It goes:
Starts in the chest like tin or wind through dead wood,
a spark, strike and flinch like dropping your bike
where the road joined forest in childhood,
feet flying along the trail, accepting your snakelike
progress around the world and back, a long hike
through rock fields and desert, lavender and dust,
dressing up and down, falling flat then timid flight,
waking hung-over the day after the darkest
and it's still dark. But something sweet has surfaced
from inside the skin and out, finally big and light,
a marriage of every naked thought and trust,
climb onto that branch and look out from this height
always and never quite a stranger's life,
as simple and crucial as a promise or a lie.
20 of 30. Happy National Poetry Month!
