a broken circle
in the zen garden
sparrow prints
soft snow
the imprint of wings
a memory
I hear
your voice in silences
and birdsong . . .
the wind-strummed trees
still sing to me of you
the spaces
in which our hearts dwell
are sacred
palimpsests of those
we have loved before
within us
the light of stars . . .
why is it
we so often
choose not to shine?
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