(for Desanka Milosevic)
It isn’t the two hundred miles you walked
Straddling the wars, carrying
The children in the palm of your hand -
Not the unslept morning you decided
To live, after he pronounced you
Dead, irrevocably -
Nor the longlost girlhood you
Buried with the touched-up photographs\
And your proud drum-kit.
No, what makes you brave
And beautiful
Is what you do every day:
A perpetual letting go,
A skillful selflessness,
Small acts of welcome and farewell
For all the loved ones,
Walking in and out,
Oblivious.
It isn’t the two hundred miles you walked
Straddling the wars, carrying
The children in the palm of your hand -
Not the unslept morning you decided
To live, after he pronounced you
Dead, irrevocably -
Nor the longlost girlhood you
Buried with the touched-up photographs\
And your proud drum-kit.
No, what makes you brave
And beautiful
Is what you do every day:
A perpetual letting go,
A skillful selflessness,
Small acts of welcome and farewell
For all the loved ones,
Walking in and out,
Oblivious.
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