I HAVE been reading the poems of
     Marie Howe, "What the Living Do"

A woman, oldest of many children
Abused by her father
And abandoned by the death of a beloved brother

Her poetry is mostly beautiful, melancholy thought
     on these topics
And yet, she manages to bring spirit, love, and
     hope where I would only look for despair

In the margins of her poem "Prayer" someone
     has written in pencil:

     1. I want to write about god and suffering and
          how the trees endure/what we/don't want--
          the long dead months before the apple blossoms
     2. I've been thinking about how the Sorrow of men
          is different from the sorrow of women,
          tonight i don't know how
     3. I have been thinking that maybe I will release
          myself from all this pain, before i read to the end
     4. And it went on like that through the night we made
          up until we could pretend it was morning