Sorrow’s Flower Is So Small a Joy (for Christian Wiman)


A shallow puddle
in the backyard
cries out to be filled in.

But you are full, I say,
full already.

Can’t you see my depression?
the puddle asks.

Ducks on their way north
love you as you are, I said,
and went inside.

When I returned,
the thirsty ground had done its work.

Ducks overhead sang a honky-tonk tune
and missed their muddy friend.

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