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it seems of time
I have no say
of where and when
the leaving
of souls held dear
I wish I’d held
a moment more
to grieve

these gifts of life –
of laughter merged
to make of me
a locket –
of grapes
the same as winter wheat
frosted by the wind

where am I
and how to say
of all the things worth keeping
love survives
the harshest storms –
blossoms yet
as seed

down the years
as one made more –
by touch with me
to tarry –
let me love
or let me sleep
beyond this futile dream

carry me
e’er splinters press
a crush of silver locust –
born to curse
the coming back
– the stinging of the blade

. . .