How optimistic
the dead become with time,
their smiles slowly broadening
down there in the dark;

sensing continuity
as cardinals feed 
in the overhanging branches
in their former yards, trees
that were not large enough
to hold a feeder
when they passed;

finding peace
in how muffled
the sound of strife
has become;

knowing water works like hope,
trickling into the earth
after a needed rain;

taking joy 
in the presence
of roots.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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