November 7

comments 4
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Standing still and green,
the grass is more water

than land. The sky
is gray, dawn long past,

but again, it’s hard
to quantify. I think

I may have a stone
at my core, just one

of those that studs
the lawn, that fallen

leaves adhere to, dense
and cool, and hence

the sense of weight,
and how I wake

on these days,
Oregon mornings,

to wistful rain,
and a sense of longing–

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