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thanksgiving poetry

i stand in the cold gray weather
i am the wind that wavers
in the cloud-gray mornings
in halls of sleep you wandered by
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
i am a woman
through the broad earth's aching breast
let me be sad
birds against the april wind
simplicity
this ancient silver bowl of mine
my soul is a dark ploughed field
the sky

 



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