DTM (March 9,1957 / New York City)



I have become the sum
of my distractions.
Paper and ivory, reeds and metal,
taught skins and splinters of wood.
Books that sleep in wait of me.

I whittle elegant places to sit.
I speak a foreign tongue with
no one foreign to reply.
I make music no one will hear.

My eyes do not focus
as they once had, so
I choose what I see,
I rise early and sleep too soon.

My feet tell of my traveling,
My shoulders and knuckles talk to me,
about their memory of work.
I try to not dwell on aches.

I am done with many things.
Many things are done with me.

There will always be
the twigs the storm dropped,
and the battle with the
advancing woods.

I no longer contemplate sunsets.
Mornings rouse me in darkness,
That I may be witness to the
rise of light from the earth.

Always, the survivors will be
the doubt and misgivings,
Walking in and out of
the doors to my house.
And after the lights are out
and the doors locked, braiding
themselves into my dreams.
2014 Daniel Thomas Moran

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Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

Comments (1)

A depth of understanding in these wonderful words, that seem to paradoxically pull-away and draw nearer to the human soul at the same time; amazing.