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at times
I cling to nothing
but the scent
of ancient fir –
a willingness
of dawn to bear the day
I linger in the
afternoon of lives
I dreamed before
a sip or two
of something else
when all I wanted so
was yesterday
rings upon the table
proof of joy –
wonder ne’er denied
roads returning rivers
crossways through
my heart
where stars are come
to sleep beneath
the pines

. . .