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papa thought
the path was long
but didn’t mind the walking
was just the way
he told the story
mine

of skies
where only wing’eds sailed
heights too much
for man
lands beyond
a destiny
imagined us become

a house
and forty acres
was someone left
to grieve
hands were folded
doors unlatched
always

clean enough
for supper
sunday
as talk where silence lay
nestled in the arms
of everything

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