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into this southern still
wherein the last wild goose
has flown –
stretched against the beating drum
distance melts to psalm
played again
on northern flutes
and meant to save
us all

to pen these letters few
will speak of all I know
ancients leaving feathers
on the lawn
whistle as the lessons fall
eager to the rise
stories there
where graces come to word –
memories are stirred
the same as I

as the twilight
perched upon the fence
watches past the time
where life begins to never end
sweeps to reams of maple
every mention
of goodbye –
lullabys we never knew
echo through the dark

rapture wrapped in arms
of evergreen

. . .