Friday, April 17, 2009


A path curves gently through the mist
Of lilacs and of daffodils
A wash of green and amethyst
Of ponds and clover covered hills.

Here bird-trills are not crushed mid-song
By Harleys or a passing car
But drift out freely all day long
And land upon the fields afar.

Nor is the wind a wounded breath
That moans and sighs with weak resign
But boldly rises from each death
And weaves its way through blue spruce pines.

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