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Saturday, May 10, 2008

Nature's Human Hands

Twilight presses its hand to my chest,
lungs constrict as the sky bleeds
red in the West. Another log thrown
on the dimness, the heavens glow
on the wood pyre. Dark clouds come
home to rest.

Our living souls never understand
this world we glean, life is
a wild cry in the pool;
What things will remain for our
children to see when the rain
cries so - tear drops huddle to cool?

Only the soul that goes
over the wood that glows, knows
that this nest is dying,
they go to joy, we stay in grief
unable to link wings, in this
rush and wild crying.

The only thing of certainty
is a flower crushed forever dies.
To heal the land and skies
and tidy as though no human knew,
the cure is to care enough
to make it brand new.

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