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.
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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