The Meadow 119 * Simon Perchik The hands that soothe your forehead are lifting the moon from the same grave it’s returned to by morning—both hands and the slow climbing turn that points where Spring too no longer dies forever though for a few hours you become a sea lowering the Earth between your fingers for waves, wiping clear the shore as proof it never happened and winter is still in the ground, waiting for the horizon to return, bring back the sky, this time as the sound that once lit up its life.
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