cleaning out old papers
giving away old books
I ran across a box of letters
I sat in a chair
and read one after another
the letters were from readers
of my own published books
(out of print now)
these letters were dated long ago
those who wrote to me said
they read my books
because of the pure sadness I expressed
some said I was depressed, like they were
I never saw myself as writing depressing poetry
until another person wrote
that the emotional pain I shared
(in relationships that did not work out)
did not give them relief from their own depression
but
the breakups I I wrote about
and how intense pain I felt
gave them companionship
as they went through their depression
one woman said my sorrow
(as she understood it in my poetry)
helped her make it through
the tough Christmas seasons
when she lost so much
one never knows where our words
will end up
and whether they will heal
someone going through the same pain
The Broken and The Holy 