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All the ways home

are beautiful ways. I go out to travel the seasons, then follow, familiar as maps on return, the curves I leaned into, the stars where they burn, with blossom and waterfall reasons. Every day wears a weather of beautiful days; and ways back - warm reverse of each page read with senses alert, memorized (what and when?) - are rehearsed for the times to be lived in again, on this revolving stage.

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