trace ~

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whereIam

daybreak wears
a yellow dress
longer than july
and wonders to the boys
with woolen hands
summers gone
and one more ring
was promise to endure
the golden age
the turning page
resigned

by one
was I another
slept beyond my prime
cursing at a dream
for letting go
held in place by whispers
dare I make the bed
and worry then
for where my pen
was laid

fingers trace
the only proof
someone locked the door
a name for places
I can scarce recall
a life before the living
let of me to leave
photographs
and what of then
remains to be
again

swept beyond
the reaches
of a faraway resolve
some other dream
remembers me
to home

. . .

we were ~

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divine

a moment of holy
sacred divine
as light thru the memory
of windows
we were
remembered another
thought we became
a star not yet fallen
a wish not yet made
a beginning more tender
than words could endure
or touch
could be trusted
to keep

. . .

remains ~

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touch

winter pulls
against my boots
(carry me away)
to plant my dreams
where now the wheat
turns grey
smoke
above an evening (rest)
lives I must have known
are gathered sweet
memories (to stone)
a verse
or two -
(remains of sins)
nurtured by the spring
ashes fall
(snowflakes) whispering

. . .

stutter ~

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knowing

beyond this mortal stutter
beyond the reach
of night
beyond our thoughts
awaiting words to write

promise seeds a garden
of evermore and sage
verses swarm above
a willing page

quiet speaks
of always
and never makes a sound
wings are raised
– heaven
is come down

longing swells
the lover’s heart
wherever shadows fall -
poems penned
with not a word at all

. . .

understood ~

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andIremember

sometimes
the wind holds me aloft -
denied the tempting to fall
a night bird cries
and all I hear is your voice
a sweet understanding
sits with the pines
a flutter of song
remembers me home
musing released as a sigh -
stardust mingles with dew
breathless to find
the reason we came
was ever
only
to love

. . .

ne’er a line ~

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rememberedhere

of verses
few are written
my passion to discern
no meter come
to match
my violin
language not yet
given breath
to longing unconfessed
cept in that tiny realm -
we are again

where sacred deemed
a moment dear
as none before the same
no poetry
committing us
to rhyme
eternities
and ne’er a line
could answer for my soul
or speak above
a silence
so divine

. . .

ache ~

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surely

of aches
I’ve come to know
too well
of lazy sunday mornings
when tempeted by a dreamer
back to bed
took no regard
for lessons -
a preacher’s silent rants
of destinies approaching
flowers in my hand

was almost none
to matter
a place where I was not
a fleeting stare
of sullen disregard
for sins already offered
confession getting cold
eyes on the horizon
a place
to weight me down

where once a storm was rumored
warning me of tears
the morning pulling in
across the pines
afraid for days beyond the next
firey passion slept
warm against the longing
sunday kept

. . .

the shape of words ~

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certainme

once
and I was here before
watching from the window
on a piece of land
and thirteen stones
by name

thirty steps
from screen to gate
sixteen more to leaving
headlights swept
above a gravel plan

dusty now
to keepsake hopes
by one of me forgotten
crayola words
tho who to recognize
the shape of words
spilling verse
counting back to heaven

crooked boards
remember me
a poem undefined

. . .

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