Walk

It is the middle

of the night

and the candle

grows dim

as it snuffs

itself

it knows

sunshine will come

at dawn

and

things will

come our way

in their own will

not in ours

and we

will feel its thorns

and smell the flowers

coming

we hear a distant caw

a crooked path

the crow flies

a branch bends

a cat looks up

as we

walk our

own path.

 

 

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