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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everything — and us

poor, his bed is not
even his to claim
at least in human reck’ning
could this be the one
ev’ry soul longs for?

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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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i am the lad

i am the lad who gets up at night
and peeps in at windows, face shining bright

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