the other day,
singing in the garden:
one soft wild whistle
danced upon the page
and then subsided into night.
Having heard that tiny
chirp of promise,
I'll listen more intently now;
still the insistent humming
of the bees in my brain,
the murmur of the flowing
in my veins,
to hear, below
that steady shimmer of noise,
the bright clear call
of hope.
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