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sorry poem

perhaps it is no matter that you died
a few more windy days
are you awake?
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
out of the deep and the dark
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
the mountains they are silent folk
there were three in the meadow by the brook
this is the arsenal
i heard the wind all day
see the tentative
in may
the sun is up
along the banks

 



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