Sunday September 6

Where time is measured
by autumn's stillness
where once
clouds of butterflies
caused me to look up,
yet even the Gatekeeper is gone now,
and everything is holding its breath;
my books are put away.
His hand a-comforting
her throbbing, hurting head,
the not-knowing-what-to-do-
after-16-years-of this-to-ease-
her-pain,
wild-eyed attempt at praying,
takes its cue
from the dog a-watching
and lets the day
slip effortlessly
into
holy
oblivion.

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