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for Sage
When the horses hear us coming, they nicker and whinny across the white field stubbled with grass. I stroll with you along the frozen road, the sky low and gray as smoke. As long as we move, you sleep. The stroller wheels spin you into their spell. Your lashes are stars on your cheeks, small constellation. What dreams, what lives remembered, in your slumber? The river moves whitely in the air. Mist settles over the hills, their snow-flocked trees patterns of light and dark. It’s the month of your birth, December, month of ending. The archer shoots his arrows of fire into the coming night. Too soon you’ll walk on your own path, no need for me to follow, then, behind me, wheels turning over the familiar road.
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Enjoy these poems and short essays on nature and awakened life.Archives
August 2019
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