On peace, left with us. An autumn poem.

all around, grace
cathedrals
the liturgy longed
for in the whitewashed
clapboard weary
world
all around, mercy
symphonies
the dry bones of
summer finally finding
technicolor
hope
all around, peace
preaches
eschatology reserved
for rough hewn pews
under azure
skies

*
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What would old McGregor say: thoughts in an autumn garden

What would old McGregor say if he wasn’t too busy chasing rabbits and stopped long enough to notice the creeping ebb of color

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If he quit worrying long enough about the straight rows

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And saw that the fruit wasn’t ripe within the fences but rather

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Well beyond them

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What would old McGregor say

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If he noticed the sun angling lower along the horizon igniting truth in long forgotten places

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And secrets waiting to be told

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