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Wednesday, July 28, 2010

one of my poems-a lovely Edward Gorey, a notice and a boot with bone


Spring to Summer, Summer

The vernal pools with their white birds

Gathered at the edges. The gold

On the rocks. That oak tells

Everything it knows. This is

The remembering wind. This

Is its time. We will see it so

Seldom we will try to touch

Its tall choirs swirled with clover

fields and flowers of a thousand colors.

We catch at its fine strings, shaking

Ourselves to believe. This is the

Remembering wind. It glistens

Like jewel stone glistens. We are

Learning to speak once again.

The tall ships move into our

Language, their sails full of

The Remembering wind.

It is morning.

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