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Tuesday, July 21, 2009



Every thought, every word,
each and every morning
cast, like stones along
a riverbed, awaiting
winter’s icy chill

Each one a reminder
with edges worn smooth,
traces of more solid things
once crumbled, and then scattered
in humbled anonymity

And the water rushes by
until the day freezes
so sharply that everything
lies hidden beneath an
opaque sheet of creaking ice

Waiting for other days
and other mornings,
other thoughts and other words
to come tumbling by,
still glowing in significance.

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