Tradition

Ancestral farm

Children sort stones,

Good from evil

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Dry Fountain

Old haunt by water

My shadow slips,

Fall to starless night

I’ll walk your footsteps

Steal them for mine.

 

 

Early Rains

My shadow the only shade;

I run home to open windows.

A crow laughs over seven lanes

And flies seven streets,

A hand through my hair!- it’s just breeze.

The airs cool when the lane dips,

And soft rain drips glass buttons.