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Growing Dark



Though the days remain warm, the nights grow longer every day. That's a fact, Time Change or not. This poem is one result:


Dream Sought


I could not find the trail,

it being so concealed

by shadows of black and gray trees

and the whitest shadow of snow.

Yet I know the path is there

for it was well-trodden in

better days. Still I am troubled

and doubtful, like entering a

darkened room and feeling for

a moved chair.


“No road has an end,”a hobo said,

“as long as the numbers change

or the tracks lead the other way.”

But this is a path in the forest,

the one that looks familiar, and I

hope leads to a silent meadow,

soft-shaded, where I lay down to

die.


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