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Saturday morning
brown stains on freshly-mowed grass
death comes mourning,
to others
the gift of light receding
earth-roots tapping
less the water
replicating patterns of beauty
in near-death experiences
we hold what is dear close to old visions
scattering prisms of hope
and hope
love will find a way.
Editing stage:
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Comments
vexations10
Sun, 2011-09-04 21:31
Still around
Did you ever get any feedback on this poem?
vexations
scribbler
Sun, 2011-09-04 22:04
hello
I read this as comparing a drought to lack of love. I think it could be clarified a bit better though...............stan