For the Muse

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for the gardens
that never succumb
to the weight of
their history,
for the ancient
wooden structures
that become
more full of love
with each passing
year, until one
day they will
collapse from
the enormity of
this love that has
seeped into
its bones,
for the muse,
which compels me
to bring heart to hand,
word to page,
even when i don’t
know what i
have to say,
even when no
expression will
ever reflect
what inside, too
is always changing,
with gratitude
for the trying,
for the going on
 
– TS
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What We Are

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and maybe I can
swirl between the lights
like snowflakes that dance
their small dances with the
winter wind on their way
down or out to their
vanishing point
 
and maybe I have
feeling like a bird
would, living out its destiny
among the clouds, wanting
for it to come down
to rest, in soft defiance
of the order of things
 
and maybe it is
you I follow down every
and all roads, not seeing
the burdens I have
rested upon you, who
knows what love is
and what love is not
 
and maybe, finally,
i will love the snowflake
for its imminent disappearance,
the bird for its freedoms,
and you, always, for
bringing me to the reckoning
of what I am
 
– TS