Stone and clay move reluctantly
after much toil and argument;
A morning at the dirt mine
renders me for the afternoon
right humbled but emboldened,
heavy limbed but light of mind;
Fog thins and lifts for a while,
words click, pop behind old eyes,
sing and zing on the pale screen,
stories spool out, poems stack,
Stiff fingers can't keep up then,
Spelling right or wrong is pain;
Better to wear out than rust out,
better to hurt with life than rot.

Henry's books.


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