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The Nature of Dusk by Jesse Printer Friendly

On the edge of a hundred babbling brooks

as on the tips of tongues

the world leaves a sensitivity of feeling

as of something just forgotten

one side or the other of a stream of ideas

looking back at each other

as curious indiscretions are worn smooth

beneath the everpresent flow of cool reason.

Seasons change and yet the waters flow

carrying with them leaves of every color

and reflections of clear skies and storms

and the life and death of all things

that come to drink and savor

come to ask the favor

that the stream forget them too

but never leave their sides

or halt the turning of stones to dust.


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