Poetry       Essays       Letters

Sandy Lyne


The Gift

Every day, the gift is given,
and I do not open it.
Instead. Instead. Instead.
Easier to read a book,
or visit ghosts.
Easier to play the savior.

Once, on a sandy shore
under moon and stars,
I watched the waves
take snapshots of the deep.

What does the parachutist see
whose chute has failed—
death’s map unfolding
like a time-lapse bloom,
the cervical sheen
of an uprushing pond,
and nothing virtual?

Every day, the gift is given,
and I have not opened it.
Instead, instead, instead.
Yet, every day,
the gift is here.


© The Estate of Sandford Lyne



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