Sometimes poems come from a single idea and have to be built and rebuilt around that idea. Sometimes they come 'whole cloth' and this poem today is one of those. I was cleaning out a drawer last weekend and found it tucked in with some other papers. I don't know when it was written, but I have a single copy without changes, exactly as it appears below. I don't remember what the circumstances were when it was written. But I have read and re-read it several times and I think, hey this is not bad.
The pull of blood is weak betimes.
When wind blows snowflakes upward
We drift, we pitch, we roll away
As easily as the Sun will hide itself
At the edge of night. This close. So you
Are called to go alone but here
The genes drift closer in the air then
The dust of love and I am called
To make amends beside the ones
I spawned, with joy to share their light.
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