These words could be penned anywhere,
on the banks of the Shenandoah,
beneath the lofty mountain skies,
beside ancient monuments new,
in sight of distant sentinels silent,
yet they are penned here,
near rivers unsung and green unstoried hills.
Are they more, or less, for this
untethered heart, reaching – listlessly –
to any listening ear yet not reaching
the ears gathered just beyond my door?
I am not the artist of this place
or that place or any place,
for these days artists have no place
and places have no artists;
they earth is shrunk and no one
can reach another hand.
We have lost each other just when we thought
we had gained the whole world.
So these words are penned here,
nowhere, everywhere, and
– it matters not.
For are we now not our own widow,
our own orphan, our own stranger?

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