In the Stillness of Time

 

snow peels back from cedar tops

like paint on the fence—

another season

weathered

 

did you think of me today?

allow thoughts to drift

to the bowl of soup

we drank

 

whenever it works, come,

and we will go again

to that place

we own

 

the teahouse perched

on a mountainside

where birds

steal bread

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