Three poems by Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

Pain

it is winter

all  is green

I turn

attention

to

the pain

slip

into night

into

knowing

how

the door

opens

Carry

this 

instrument

I 

carry

body 

present

breath

blown

I 

find

performs 

best

when 

I

play 

beyond

me

Blind

I do not

hurry

because

listen

more

because

touch

more gently

because

I long

to

see