Comfort, with the exception of hotel and suites, is a term rarely used in the vocal lexicon, yet thankfully present in the actions of virtuous persons in aid of the depressed and conflicted. It’s a term more done than said. Not a bad thing. That said, it is strange to attribute it to literary work. It’s almost redundant, a great work of literature, no matter how enlightening or inspiring or comforting, is only what it obviously is—a great work of literature. So maybe we describe the author as—that doesn’t make sense either. There’s no such thing as a comforting author unless said person repeatedly assures you that your work, your essence, will become something as it sits as nothing in your eyes. Maybe if said author was prolific in works of comfort, maybe poems, poem after poem relaying the plight of the imperfect human, their relationships with others and the work and hope to make things right if not at the very least to keep one’s self moving forward. Enter the Lord Zearing Collection. Sometimes poetry is stark, austere. Other times, it’s flowery, symbolic, open to interpretation. This time it’s simple words between you and I, words of normal conversation, real emotion, today’s thought. If you were to comfort me, what you would likely say.