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Spent

Do you remember the time we spent watching snowflakes

listening to the soft pitter patter of white bloom

on a windowpane dark with night?

“ Is it the moon,” you asked, small hand in mine

warm curve of sweet honey scented cheek pressed

to my chest full to burst with the love of you

my sweet.

“Is it the moon falling, mama? Or just the stars?”

As if it had to be one or the other in a jigsaw universe

where everything fit Lego block tight in  a pattern

painted across the sky.

“Not the moon. Not the stars,” I reply,

Thinking yes the moon, yes the stars,

yes breath of princesses long ago dead

slain dragon’s blood

dust shaken off Bedouin feet before entering

a camel hair tent a world away

precious drop of water stopped, waiting

at the end of a date palm frond

lizard below tongue poised for that moment

when it drops

falls, begins its journey to a Wisconsin night

a thousand years distant

to land

spent

but brought to life anew

by the dreams

of one small boy.

 

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