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Poetry

It’s what I need to practice,
the lines of my life too neatly drawn
around the comfort of being here.

It’s why I’m out here again,
in the middle of the field just as
the day pauses between what is

and what was, darkness rising up
between the hemlocks and spruces
that have brought their shadows

together. I’m waiting for the moment
when the oaks and ashes
slip out of the names we gave them,

the thrushes have had their say
and the dark adds the slightest chill
to the air, a breeze announcing itself

in the wind chimes. It’s then
that the invisible hearse of darkness
waits for me to get in. It’s then

that I too often call out, here
I am, to someone who has just begun
to wonder where I have gone.


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