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Something we have yet no poems for

We want to go on like this, always -- The dark hills folding their wings around us And the wind, its suitcase filled with crickets, Coming home trhough the sumac. Acres and acres of goldenrod sway with regret And longing. Soon, small animals will disappear, their breath Whispering through dying milkweed, rising Like the prayers of children -- But tonight the moon is full of wisdom And laughter, knowing something We have yet no poems for.

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