Thursday, April 21, 2005

After the adventure there is no map

only a vase of fresh lilies, the room
their scent quickens, a bowl of apples cut neat,

the cream pooling its crystal. A place called home
nods by you: far hills but photographs,

a memory not yet come
as the aimless sway of bronze chimes strays

in now from the yard, an odor of rain.

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