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thanksgiving poetry

high-born race
out of the deep and the dark
i do not pray for peace
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
stuff of the moon
leave the lovely words unsaid
all day to watch the blue wave curl and break
the ancient songs
there were three in the meadow by the brook
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me

 



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