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On the Night of the First Snow, Thinking about Tennessee

ISSUE:  Summer 2007

It’s dark now, the horses have had their half-apple,
mist and rain,
Horses down in the meadow, just a few degrees above snow.

I stand in front of the propane stove, warming my legs.

If the door were open, I’d listen to creek water
And think I heard voices from long ago,
distinct, and calling me home.

The past becomes such a mirror—we’re in it, and then we’re not.


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