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Gratefulness
When the face we wear
grows old and weathered, torn open by time,
colors tinted as dawn
like the late winter mountains
of Sedona ashen and crimson.
It will no longer be possible
to distinguish our deepest scars
from the long sweet lines left
by laughter.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
He wants to fill in the pasture’s low spots. I say no, no, no these…
O body, cracked bell that still sings when struck, O leaky cup, O broken stem,…
Oh to find that still surface, the glide of silk and silence, sun lit along…
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