This is the blog form of the original composition. You may also read it as a list on one page.
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till her eyes close to their light.
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No light before dawn.
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Loneliness lies awake with
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its lover, silence.
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Silhouette landscapes merge
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with birdsong to end darkness.
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A song in praise of
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this friend for fifty-two years.
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Like lines in a hand,
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her presence, her love, etched deep,
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framed the child, formed the woman.
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The language of life —
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images and sounds from worlds
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in evolution.
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Before letters, cavelines drawn
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by the hands of history.
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All ephemeral,
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spoken stories lose to tides
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that heed but the moon.
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Histories, written, survive
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above the high-water line.
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Words anchor minds, bring
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imagination, spirit
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home to wide harbours;
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whether on paper or on a screen,
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treasures, ideas, unlocked.
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Three men on a porch.
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Beer cans — one, two, three, four, five —
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line the roughhewn rail.
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The wide bay, shawled by sunset,
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stays calm as they reload.
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With rifles, handguns,
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they shoot toward deep water,
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where soft clouds shimmer.
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Such weapons, such aimless hands
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shatter surface, silence, calm.
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Calm, tame your anger.
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As scissors alter fabric,
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anger transforms heart.
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Tissue — hardened, constricted.
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The warp, weft of life — altered.
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Love as carapace?
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Whether carried by the heart
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or mind, it transforms.
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Without shield or hard-grown shell,
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openness lies, unguarded.
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Openness defies form.
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No trellis supports its weight.
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It’s invisible.
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Limitless, it can be bound
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by love’s elasticity.
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She vowed she loved him,
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demanded a home from him.
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He was not as sure.
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How she had pursued him then,
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her bow taut, arrow ready.
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He wanted to leave,
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to seek wisdom on his own.
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She used weapon tears,
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siren calls to pull him back,
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hoist him to her trophy wall.
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Now words cut him down.
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From a continent away,
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she draws back her love.
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Wounded, he flails, falls and folds.
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Bleeds more with her arrow out.
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Rain makes summer grow.
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In a green county, proud corn stalks,
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Sharon roses thrive.
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Tendril vines twist ’round wires.
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A fall of sun brings Riesling.
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Hard to distinguish
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Old World Swallowtails from leaves
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burned ochre by drought.
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They glide past falling petals
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till rain offers them lilies.
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Rain: yes, yes, yes, yes.
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High clouds gave rain leave to fall
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on desperation.
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A double rainbow cliche
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undone: no drops reach the ground.
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Too much, too much noise.
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Morning rain spits and sputters.
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Chickadees complain.
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Blue jays call, insult the calm
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craved by the sole penitent.
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No pleasure comes from
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the conspiracy of doves,
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their three-note secret,
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soft and sure, offset by terns,
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aloft with rasp and cackle.
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What does calm bestow?
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The same as quiet offers?
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Is it more? Or less?
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What if he finds no refuge
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in what he believes, he seeks?
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He thought he knew it,
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how calm would feel: Petal-soft,
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breeze-easy, pastel.
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Instead, a room of concrete