As we file through the gate
In the clothes that see no light
Stare at words upon the graves
Piece together threads of time
Mouth the hymns into the page
In the garden stand a while
In restless dreams we walk away
On the threads of spring
What the winter stole
Bursts in offering
With no care or thought
And when petals blow
Shake their feathered edge
Joys the birds will sing
Of which we are unaware
In the lane the strangers wait
Right on time
Knowing every hour they gave
And the price
All around the branches shake
Watch us sigh
Quietly they finger-paint
From the sky
From the threads of spring
What the winter stole
Leaves me wondering
Why the world still turns
Maybe petals know
with their feathered edge
and the birds that sing
with the one that we left there.
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