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late spring— |
crushed grass a lover clung to in vain through winged dreams |
| murmurs of discontent from a distant rumble |
dreamers cross the magpie bridge stars scattered like petals |
| wind through dry pines, the terrible flash of a distant pyrocumulus |
in-flowing tide a fresh breath of life on the river |
| a lightning strike bootlegs its way into history |
the purl, the babble, the song, |
| rain falls at last disturbing the long silence of the mountain stones |
a thread pulled from Eliot's tapestry defies fate |
| cascading rivulets carve out a new covenant |
proof that people are crueler than any lingering season |
| in the wild irises stir the ancient enmities that marble desire |
the last post a lone bugler taps into a shared sadness |
| Laocoön and his sons writhe in relentless agony |
the wind's blue note colors the white cry of the wood duck |
| in the languid dust not a trace of Troy remains to be seen |
scudding clouds enter the vision and are gone |
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