{ holding still }

today, this day, we have,
but others had them, too —
a place midst moving out and
holding still —

the autumn sings a song of
what is here and gone:
a chorus we can hear, if
we but will

i loved you in my time, and you
have loved me, too;
our limits, each, like blankets
keeping warm

the essences of all
our fleeting memories,
the shapeless pattern,
looking for a form —

but in this golden autumn, see
or hear these words:
or drink them, if you ever
need a fill —

that what you’ve given me
has always been enough,
and to you, i’ll be always



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