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Tenacity of Lace

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Musings #19



Like a two-handled urn, each side a profile

facing out in opposite directions,


or strung together, not long enough

to tail a kite for lofting –


       If only . . . .


A backward glance of rue and alas,

wistful, lingering like a last touch.

That the past


– all its mean words and closed hands –

could be undone, whisked away

with wand and wave.


Or forward on to hope, the future’s promise,

Emily’s thing with feathers.


       If –

conditional to be sure, pivot and hinge,

spun on a pinhead, a chasm to leap across.


But the condition met, fulfillment

is assured, lacking just one


        – the only –

thing, a certain singularity,


easily granted.  Three visiting angels

come walking, wings

folded flat to their backs.


       Hurry, open the front gate.


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