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closerhome

heaven
is never
as close as was then
warmth
to my cold
fingertips

somebody wrote
themselves into story
e’en now
I remember
the way –

the essence
of light
when stilled
by surrender

purpose made sweeter
by the giving
away

a shimmering
promise
of love yet
becoming

the same as was
morning –
found new
on the day

. . .

 

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