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"Life is made of both..."

Life is made of both:

The rigorous, the slow

And in seven woven days

We are complete.


All men have their flourishes

And some even their loves,

But past the weeping gates

We are replete.


And so we must give pardon,

The joyful head forgive,

When without the willow trees

You find conceit.


The ache of birthing freedom,

The loveliest of pains

Belongs alone to melancholy;

And thus we shall repeat.

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There are moments I remember that even the schools of crickets are multitudinous, and that waiting for the rain makes the sun too bright. I discover new shapes every day: green ones, gold ones, secret

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Conversations with Jesus on the front porch. So many worries. That's true, he says. Everything moving by things I can't see. But perhaps, he says, you can. And under it all? You'll remember, he says.