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pressing

I’ve found my joy
in pieces –
once again
the same as I
as years and miles
– eternities begun
as silent prose
so rarely known
fit with words and painted
sherbet melon skies
around the sun

were poets
but a name
we gave
to those with dare
for dreaming –
dragonflies
and there I pass alone
swept in counted linen
falling to and fro
crooked boards
with want
to plead
my soul

wonder
banks the tallest pine
with whispers
of regret
prophets warn
of moments got away
before the wake
of just how much
we’d give to come again
night birds chasing
memory
into day

. . .