We must be capable of being blown about
yet be like a growing thing
rooted into the clay; the pine soil
firmly attached, while our lives do pass
We must continue to breathe
as wind scorns evening and
rips past our places of
reckoning, grief ,silence
We must embrace light and
then the damp cold shade
Hold to our breast all the
old wisdoms we heard
as whispers when we came here
so very long ago
We must sit down; lean upon
that which we know
to be true, to be decent, to be
alive, growing and shall
last long past that time when
own breath is long gone
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