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octobersmine

what of days
are poems penned
clinging to me now
at the edge of dreams
a somewhere unknown
is sweeter for lives
left scattered
between

the first of beginning
as the last one
to leave

tho separate
our living
as ink unto page
knowing another
would carry us still
unaware of our passing
from day into light
as heart into
blossom –
breath into seed

fell from an orchard
which bloomed
in the dark
where hands waited softly
to be empty
again

. . .

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