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to stories
I’m a stranger –
to the ways of getting in
could never cut the vines
or burn the braids –
would sail
and never wonder
why the river took you back –
polished me to legions
down below

of fairytales
a few or more –
they hardly speak of now
how goats and three
they courted me
on southern nights
camped beneath
the bridges
when reached to find you
saved the night
one frosty new year’s eve

gathered now
the early show –
open hearts and willing
to understand
the leaving you alone
could never see
the mystery – eyes your shade
of blue
mercury resolved
to more than mars

who is left
to pass us on –
from cradle to the current
and no one knows we’re gone
a lifetime more
than when the telling
started –
truth I’ve known
some days I scarce recall

the oldest goat
your tender touch –
rocks within the wall
and how the map was folded
on the seat
to wonder me –
what of love is carried –
dare I cut the vines
and burn my hair

. . .