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In that spring’s first true gleam,

Lightening creased the walls

And thunder gathered the rarest of fragrances

Into its mouth.

 

The water from my tipped bowl

Spilled down a mountain the height of a weed; the breeze

Read aloud evening’s first page.

 

It was then that rain rose from the soil

And a star descended

Through the roots of these words.

 

The evening became brighter, quieter: 

No minute hand’s clatter broke through;

No wheel skidded past.

 

Time became nothing more or less than time.

 

I cast my lines ashore: sang as prow and sail burned, 

Knowing my bruises would heal.

 

Thoughts that had been tightly woven spun loose.

 

That evening’s warmth lingered on my bare shoulders;

The scent of damp loam sweetened the air. 

 

In that enormous space,

Our past seemed no more than a whisper

Sensed at the edge of sleep.