Sunday
Church bells summon ghosts
hovering under clouds of regret
reluctant to join seven times two hopeful souls
living still, willing still to listen
to ancient tales of wasted longing
redeemed by hope realized
or at least resurrected every now and then
by.. not time... by what then?
Never mind.
Keep whatever makes tomorrow
seem reasonable.
1 comment:
I wish I could just stop all the things I do to eke out a living and take to the wilds like you do. I am positively envious :)
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