If words had but one meaning, I would have died long ago and found no rest. Instead, I wept a while, and when it passed, I found this, my gravestone in the grass. It is a dictionary. And my name is filed neatly in the back, beneath Weights and Pleasures.
Winter one day, fall the next, sparrows in beds of leaves,
birch-bright colors float in cold stone baths,
then sink to please in Walden depths
the row of seeds beside the path,
and deeds the breath of civil consciousness,
wind and sun and rain and cold, the only moral stance
of this grand symphony — and we are free at last, free, at last.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces