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Winter Evening

The stillness

of snow and trees

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does not pass.

It is taken in

by earth, and held

like breath.

Gradually it drifts

up, is caught

in the voices of stars.

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Silence gathers, too,

in us, is kept

in us

as in the hollow

of an inverted cup.

It falls like soft rain

on thought,


thought's seeds.

It carries us

to image

and memory, sets

language free.

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