You, dear mother,
are all women, all wonders
and of your form flow
rivers of grace
your gaze sets forests
ablaze with love
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I
One quarter of a century has elapsed
the diurnal movement of a life-cycle
rotating on its own axis
turned inwards and away from
hung by a nail upon the casement
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Twice or thrice they crisscross
Across the level crossing
And the nettles cling
Stubbornly to their sides
Spreading their displeasure
Upon the broken ridges
Of crumbling soil;
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You draw your breath
yearning
a sadness infinite
in its contemplation;
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The rocks stretch out their arms
To homeless pebbles in the sand
As the white waters leap
Downhill in headlong pursuit
Of happy, lapping hours.
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