good friday

today the warmth returned
and the blond-haired boys were
running wild through beds
of brittle hydrangea
and barren rose canes
when the littlest
still unsteady on his feet
caught his teddybear bib on a thorn

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maundy thursday

we’ve had a cold snap again
frost nipping the eager blooms
of the japanese magnolias
and kissing the bricks
that weight the blanket
stretched over the half-moon bed
of drowsing flowers

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borrowed fields

this, and my dreams, are all i bring
for i, being poor, know naught else to do

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words that do not exist

what does your voice sound like?

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sunrise met the meadow

Sunrise met the meadow stark and spare

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