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Rain,
the battering background of November,
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Among my pictures
are framed smiles of tender youth
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My son rarely gives a gift, so when he does, I save it
like the paper butterfly, (in second grade he gave it).
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Days quietly extend a cooler dance with the leaves of fall,
one last hurrah of color, a performance given all.
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night drinks of an inky well
Her feathered speech
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When lilacs catch the soft of spring,
turn sunshine to perfume,
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silk and nectar merge
cathedral window winging
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Ah Joe, no poem to speak of Violet Eyes,
to hold behold the satin of newborn skies?
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A feathered autumn's bluer wish
for gold in warmer shadow,
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I watch a harbor grey named McTavish
always so intense in his search
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listing
wakefulness and wee hours
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Flagrant poetry, Gypsy man!
The music pools in what I am,
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waterfall,
rolling thunder,
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Some poems never make it to paper, they soar...
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Starlight and roses my vigil keep,
vespers whisper, windchimes weep
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in clouded speak where tears are white
spread opaque, all stars lose flight
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I wander darker hours to places far away,
where black and white fold mystique
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warmth of blue
unfolds sun between
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Starlight and roses my vigil keep,
vespers whisper, windchimes weep
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When mind is quiet, I'll be gone;
no search for words to egg me on,
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how did I get to this place
my hands reaching
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pursed lipstick red holly berries winter green
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earth to heaven,
rock yields, time insistent
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Ah ... if love were a colour
like dewdrops t'would refract
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A memory will sometimes sleep,
yet in a dream reside.
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Shiny face of Invisibility, like craters of the moon,
know shadows in heart's valleys where the sun can't come to soon.
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Beckoning stories yet to be told,
old one's left us to ravel, unfold,
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hushed
he gathers eloquence
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waltzes beneath thunder storms
strikes white-water veils of light
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