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the planting
and the bud –
how much more have we made room
how many sleepless nights
the harvest pulls
a prayer for something grander
than e’er we dared believe
orchards stretched beyond
the wishful eye

another day
when someone else
who never knew to know our name
bends beneath the weight
of fullness come

a poet holds the stillness
day before the dawn
scratching at a page
that can’t be seen –
set on some imaginary soul
in search of word
ten thousand years
another heart
to mend

whatever we have left
of days we numbered soon
of dreams denied the dreamer
a sliver of the moon
time becomes the shape
of everything we once believed
the sound of words
as falling fruit –
apples to the ground

. . .