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After Thirty Years
Wolves howl out in the wild trees
that have been left alone to dwell,
to grow into tall umbrellas, a canopy
of shade for leaves only disturbed
by voles and mice, the smaller
creatures of the floor and burrow.
The sky is relentlessly clear,
the moon a glowing ornament
with Rococo clouds, ormolu
across a deep blue lapis inlay.
We keep our window open to this night
to let its sound and fragrance float in
and drift over us as we lie together
entwined like the ivy growing
on the trunks of trees, their rough
bark an easy climb of handholds.
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