What Is True Is Already So 
So Might As Well Speak It

My heart is a small quivering hand,
planting seeds in the dead of winter. 

My days are an old dog, prone to wagging, 
then quietly laying down to escape in sleep. 

My hope is a tall hill of hurt, a train 
run off its tracks. A scared squirrel 
staring back thru a January window. 

Consider how music redeems everything. 
How its inner light excites. The way our 
bodies know exactly what to do with rhythm. 

My courage is a slow sunset, ocean waves 
barely singing, the cold sand under my feet,
stretching out for miles. That’s my new home. 

–Dale Biron