Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                         Page 9
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Too Much Weeping

Well beneath his scarf
and smarting disposition
he knows to stop snuffling.

An excess of lamentation,
he knows, would leave him
spent and salty.

Hurry!
His ankles, though swathed,
suffer the cold.

Hurry out of the house
into the garden
where soft tendrils
extend and harden.

He feels a wet frond,
a fecund root;
he smells the rot nearby,
and with his thumb props up the wilted fern.

He stifles a tear
and rumples the cloth
that protects the skin
that covers his heart.

No one sees the man withdraw
to brew a tea,
pick up a fiction,
and begin a slow smile.



  Barry Wallenstein