My friend Maureen introduced me to this poem years ago, and its final lines – “Well, it is difficult / Dear ones. It is.” – have stayed with me since. I shared them with a friend last week and then went to find the whole piece for the poetry box. It’s curious little conglomeration, and I think the heart of it is how the poet interrupts himself for the dancing, for the weeping, and to claim us as “dear ones.”
“Don’t you hear the dance music,
Old as these hills?”
