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November 4, 2004 - A poem about  Situations

Nearly Out of Breath.

There must be more than dust
and footprints marking chalkfoot climb.
Onto bent leaf trail and belly of hills
who views the haloes of seeds you plant,
who knows their downwind bloom?

You have grown along the way
soil scratched and tilled with mannered care,
stamped contoured paths for those not near
the remembered first stepped falls
of youth alone that dare not yield.

So pause to raise a harvest high,
hold up trophies found for all to spy -
be prideful in what your shoulders bear
then turn, towards the rise
where you head now.


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