Soon enough has waited for me long since,
Since I left in the dust wing of the rain.
The pitter-past of fallen leaf, swept-street rinse,
Has called out, its mercat tone new and plain.
I knew the buds that scar these stones,
I once could tell the moss-borne way.
Here or there was mine to own,
But how stones shift begs a ferryman's pay.

Titled as a return in time, the old release
At once flies to the light with the moths.
I find in my hand the binding now creased
And threaded, not even good for cloths.
The words fail to match what they once were.
I read them in their exile- fallen, wrung.
Collecting at my feet in a wind-wisp whisper,
Now to be lost in the tune on my tongue.

If you could tell them as a once upon a time,
I would be as the hearth-side child.
If you could sing them as a mother's rhyme
It will be me who weeps undefiled.
For this, and more, I will be longing
More than the earth pulls the moon
By her weave of life- prolonging.
My friend, my dream, I'll be there soon.

In the end, there's more to truth than life.
I say this too, as I always will:
--Mark me gently, as the saints in their strife
Have emptied out, knowing He can fill--
The going is for life and not the place.
The staying for the knowing we can't hold.
The leaving is the fall a friend can't trace,
The story for the ones I never told.

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