I dreamed all of this I told her, you, me, and Paris —
it was impossible to make it through the tragedy
without poetry. What are we without winds becoming words?
Becoming old children born to children born to sing us into
love. Another level of love, beyond the neighbor’s holiday light
display proclaiming goodwill to all men who have lost their way in the dark
as they tried to find the car door, the bottle hidden behind the seat, reason
to keep on going past all the times they failed at sharing love, love.
– excerpted from "Becoming Seventy" by Joy Harjo.
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