Ruminating upon the past,
all domestic pleasures are absorbed in,
as it were, a secondary god,
to preserve one of the
fingers of a mortified hand.
I silence every murmur
and the friend of my heart.
I have not felt in a humor,
I had taken up my pen.
The eyes of our rulers have been closed.
Whilst the building is in flames,
very little has been done
to secure the harbor.
January 2005
found poem
Letter from Abigail Adams to John Adams, 1776.
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