Day follows the small-lighted chill
before flagging.
Labor, then, as drumming
that flies upward as well

will affix playfulness and repose
to bodies that nonetheless
spring leaks and rain
fragmented memories.

For all who work in the love of creation,
star-holes in the far canopy
will discharge what becomes feathery.
Come, see and taste what nourishes.

Even afire, a heart beats precisely.
When children and grandparents fret,
a spouse glances knowingly.
Here. Smoke is hardly a cloud.

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Copyright 2015



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