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by Patty Dickson Pieczka

I carry your breath in my hands
like warm sun at dusk.
Your laughter vines through my hair,
roots growing into my heart.

Stay with me
while the forest rings
its small brass bells,
and the lake reflects the oracle

of October's bronze mirror,
candling golds and russets
of evening's wild dance.

Hold to our branch and whisper
your song of riffling leaves
before wind clips our stems

to whirl us
back to earth
in our separate turns.

We have only
until the moon blinks.


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