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of places becoming
the long way to home –
and a time of reflection
wherever I’m gone
more than these
I have nothing –
nothing more than of words
and hands to make heaven
a voice to be heard

of stories
of reasons to know
what I’ve sworn to remember –
was a grace to let go
give the world
of my riches
for the poor shall be paid
from the life I was making
when the clouds slipped

I shall wake
as another
one day not so long –
and right what was written
to save what was wrong

give me land
give me orchards –
let me fall
as I will –
as a stone to the waters
some other to fill

as a chorus
where angels
are come to delight –
a thought still becoming
as skin burned to light
I shall know
when each sorrow
falls new to the ground –
as love is returned
and makes
not a sound

. . .