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still

might I recall
the last we lingered
or last night’s dream
of dancing bears
words recited –
seven seasons –
have passed my window
unaware

of ageless places
unseen patterns –
notes known not by violin
float in breathless
expectation
of times intent
to pass again

dark clouds wreath
a pink horizon
lightning scores
my feather bed
veils of understanding
never
held for long –
this restless death

pluck my bloom
before the harvest
pleads the willing stalk in two
before the rights
of early autumn –
worry what of promise
true

. . .