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A Lamp in a Windless Place


The park where the snow

Is quiet, calling silence

From the birds and trees.

Houses stand still in times like these; the larkspur, the quiet all around as nothing and itself holds virtues in memories standing still. Stones are frozen now along the lake as the laughter from a child in another year hangs along the dusk-purpling clouds that apron my thoughts of street hockey — the bright orange puck-ball, hard as an apple, speckled with tarmac and black stick tape, lifts purposely through the air, whispering from a far away playground: you are still that 12 year old boyyou are the peace of the hundred acre wood…as the same breath, the smoke of Autumn life, streams from my nose now as it did then.

Street lights sparkle

Knowing I am home with my

Own happiness.

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