A Poem by Michael H. Brownstein
The well of depression on my right,
so deep and sordid,
Beautiful is a shake of geese chattering toward the north.
Beautiful is the chorus of frogs at sunset, the pond purple-blue, green, then gold.
Beautiful is snow wren and king vulture and the ridiculous four legged snake.
Beautiful is not–
but of course it is–
the most perfect ever
taking every sadness from your eyes,
every sadness from your voice,
every sadness from your fears,
every rendering of flesh, every anguish, every bite,
every terrific madness,
every punch of the heart.
The well of depression on my right
welcomes all of this and more.
After a time your feet will be less bunioned, your head less bare,
the scars on your knuckles smooth and gentled,
your voice a charmed bracelet
intricate, that simple