Late September Mornings

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There is easiness to loving you.

The way you are…giving comfort so freely.

Without fear or doubt.

In this freedom’s infancy,

There upon an earthen table lay only my discarded webs and rat races…

mazes yearning for a way out.


Rural voyages were only pretty words…in masculine books.

But those were the days of obligatory smiles, red wine and prom poses.

Days of bonfires and misguided ribbons and bows.


I ran so hard from that church…that pew.

From your praising me.

From my days of obscuring you.


Through the blurred days, my run has broken into a pensive walk.

Times when I have cherished you…somber and dark.

Late September mornings, where I have begged for radiance from the fading sun.


But your tireless and weathered artistry has always brought wisdom to me.

Sometimes, unwanted, often veiled in a climatic mask.

Yet, with unbiased foresight you have given far more than I asked.


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