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a few warm days and every blossom yearns to open as the dear Earth's goodness prepares to flood all our senses

The Healers

     Joseph Fasano


You can hear them

moving among the ruins,

hear them by their silence in the noisy crowds.

You can see them, opening

their little bags, opening

the shrapneled hearts of strangers,

crouching before the body of a child

to lean down and whisper her a story,

a story in which what’s happening

is not what’s happening.

They mend; they stitch; they carry.

They work; they weep; they lose.

And when nothing can be done

among the rubble,

they kneel there as the fires fall around them

and they cradle the face

of the dying,

the life that is trying

to speak to them,

the life that whispers, listen,

and they do.


 Our friend, Marshall Lyles, has muscular dystrophy. He suffers, he cares for others, and experiences what it is to walk in this world in this condition. He's doing something about it, about the language of it. I am so grateful. (You can scroll through slowly with the help of the arrows.)

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