Today's poem is by Aaron Anstett


No one in this world remembers making love in 1648,
though somebody must have, maybe everyone did,

or recalls the exact angle to which a sparrow bent a pine branch afterwards,
shaking loose a little rain nestled in the needles there,

or can say with certainty what that sounded like,
whether breath, or skin against skin, or nothing.

Copyright © 2005 Aaron Anstett All rights reserved
from No Accident
The Backwaters Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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