Round Up

Sometimes I forget
the help that is in a poem;
in the writing of it
which requires saying it over;

the beauty contained in pain
that comes to bite us,
the honesty,
and the terrible rightness;

the way that sound
wears away at words that are sharp
and makes them round;

and the way that deeply held memories
like prodigal sheep
trudge the steep path home;

a home where all is admitted
through a word laid bare,
if only repeated to ourselves,

or the way that bears
come blinking in spring
from their dens
to a world bird filled.