Poetry Friday

This is What Was Bequeathed Us


This is what was bequeathed us:
This earth the beloved left
And, leaving,
Left to us.
No other world
But his one:
Willows and the river
And the factory
With its black smokestacks.
No other shore, only this bank
On which the living gather.
No meaning but what we find here.
No purpose but what we make.
That, and the beloved’s clear
Instructions:
Turn me into song; sing me awake.






Gregory Orr