AN OLD WOODEN ROWBOAT

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We may not speak in poetry

But we feel in poetry

Almost all the time

Especially when we dream
Where we make guest appearances
At every age that we’ve ever been.
Or when we yearn for the love that we lost
Or when we reach out
For a fistful of pillow
Or skim along a lake
In an old wooden rowboat
That forgot its wings
Dressed in nothing more
Than the infinity of cobwebs
And an ancient morning jacket made of dew

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