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mother daughter poem

full of tears
the poets tell
in all things not spoken of
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
royal feast was done
what spiteful chance steals unawares
risen from the dead
my sorrow, when she's here with me
i walk down the garden paths
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
the old west, the old time
perhaps it is no matter that you died
braided and woven

 



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