In Writing

Lay me down now the wildness of things
The tilting at windmills
The perking up my ears at the call of wolves
The watering of forget-me-nots
The holding of seats
The silence of the hollow.
And let me turn away now from the sounds of thunder.

I dig a small hole with my fingers
In the soft earth near a stream
And rest the last there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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