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Place
We come from a place
where our memories could collect
like dew, cling to railings, to rocks
in the herb garden below the gray porch
where we sang "Day is Done." Gone the sun,
Comes the moon, comes the stars.
Our song rose above the dark, but not
high enough. That's why we didn't see
change, sharp as a buck knife, when
it took one of us, then another. The
garden shrank; the house got quiet.
The quiet grew in time to be like light,
making everything clear.
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