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That spring I felt
the green buds open
on skeletal trees.
Near a
winding path of ash
as the river grew ripe
in the slanting sun,
thoughts became places.
We watched the
Sunday-best children,
impaled on shining
communion medals,
smile at a camera`s
jagged
edge.
The sky turned to dying lilac.
And I remember
watching
you walk away in
a heaviness of thunder
and the first drops falling
like winter-tipped arrows
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