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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.