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by Nancy Diamante Bonazzoli

The view from where I
sit is all that I am
and all that we’ve sown for ourselves.

Porch chairs rock to the wind’s
speaking to itself,
and each day
the sun leaves,
carrying its glory on its back.

We, the keepers of the legacy,
rake crisp leaves into neat stacks
that burn hot
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
my forehead still stained.

It takes whole lives
to get back
to where you started from.

My Father’s voice calls
from the night owl’s pulpit.
Incense curls
while pale curtains tremble
and the golden candle creeps away
without ever looking back.

Some dreams
take it all out of you;
you forget your way.

Others give, instead,
like thick jam
on daily bread
held ever before you
like a blessing.

Copyright © 2019 by Nancy Diamante Bonazzoli

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