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retirement poem

i hold your heart
who will be naming the wind
just as my fingers on these keys
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
night is dark, and the winter winds
often i think of the beautiful town
we lay
birds against the april wind
there were three in the meadow by the brook
tell me less or tell me more
when i was a boy at college
skies they were ashen and sober
no prey am i of poor thoughts
better than granite

 



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