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came the words
for lives were not my own
and ears were pricked awake
by thunderstorms
lightning flashed
as dragonflies
were swept into the black
and somewhere
promise melted
to a sigh
with no one left to tell
just how the story started
of how it felt to know
the past was gone –
better now remembering
years forgiven years
jars of age old harvest
hands beneath the page
winter blows against
this house
and I am (soon) reminded
of lips that would not move
without my pen
awaiting now
another story starting
with ears to pry
yesterday to speak