Joanne Clarkson

A framed poem by Whitman written
          in his own hand about how all worlds
                    connect.
 
Painting of a baby grand piano
          mirroring a garden of flowers.
 
Water color of hinged bookshelves,
          spines of every color and height
                    moving the eye like a flag.
 
Description of a kite festival
          written by a 10-year-old boy.
 
At eight a.m. the room is already
          full.  Many of the patients
know each other, nod, compare lives,
          lack eyebrows,
                    wear scarves
 
all in this open boat of hope where music
          becomes a garden,
a draft of words attempts
          the universe
 
and books are closed forever, but from a distance
          look like a cobbled rainbow
 
while a small brown boy with a red kite
          hangs on to the sky of his life.