On a Quilted Ridge
The way morning bleeds through to night.
My thoughts are a quiet park
free of whimsical birdsong and children’s laughter
on Saturday afternoon’s eternal summer.
From the bench you’re on a quilted ridge
sleek as a southern hiccup weaving through cedar
where pine needles flourish by your dimming light.
I sink softly, a freshly formed puddle
fallen below. The sky unembroidered.
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