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Untitled

My oldest daughter’s moon reflects my sun.
My youngest daughter’s sun collects my moon.
The woven strands of stars undone
Within my mind begin to weave a tune
That sings around me in a tunic form
With threads of gravity and mystery
To shield my soul against the wind and warm
The wintry past with future history.

Comments

  1. Rufus,

    Just saw this! We must be cycling or sumpthin!

    My own serves as a humble envoi –

    This especially got my juices going:

    “The woven strand of stars undone
    Within my mind begin to weave a tune
    That sings around min in a tunic form
    With threads of gravity and mystery…”

    Love it!

    JOB

  2. Big Jon Bully says:

    Indeed.

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