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Jan. 11, 2002
My dream, my memory
clean blue above
shot through with golden
thread of cloud
I smell the wandering wind
with its rumours of
tree and plain - water and sky
your home breathing to me.
The dusk your eyes.
Soft grey through bare branches.

The sun's last wash
like amber in winter
pulls in my chest.
I would follow this ashen path
to your abandoned door
where your color
is still on the land.