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were our story
without ending –
the road would lead us on
forgotten not the turning
or the fall
reminders of eternity
wink and they’ll be gone
hands to hold –
and one to change
it all

eighty years
or sometimes ten –
a garden loved by thorns
a rusty metal rocker
hides the shade
baskets stained by picking
weeds to bind the fence
bees are telling
every plan
we made

a worn out
sunday prophet –
folds his bible near
tho none can read the name
it used to hold
leather bound by promise –
love would get us through
trees are bending
in the cold

I been down
and got back up –
to know
(I know) of love
of seasons undecided
by the light
of passing into paradise
to live beyond these days
gardens yield for tending –
somewhere sweet

. . .