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the fields
blown whiter now
than first with winter squall
I wonder how they miss us here –
do they miss us
most of all

when evergreen
their branches brush
against an endless night
do they know
how hard the coming back
to a place within the light

an ancient star
once wished upon
when held beneath a worried chill
I wonder how it is
I knew –
how I would miss you

. . .