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thanksgiving poem

earth travails
i do not pray for peace
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
this ancient silver bowl of mine
i love the old melodious lays
the sun is up
sun stepped down from his golden throne
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
but i cannot read you now
arched the flood
with the meek, brown eyes
doubtless i remember still


 



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