Old ground

No spring rain.
A poets feet clomping.
Drawing sweet life with every step.
The roots aged from
lights of past years,
and still in winter wraps.
With a drifting shadow bloom.
I remember those long nights,
bedded on straw and feathers.
Her touch was sure.
Each kiss was plush.
Mornings held off,
until the moon’s infection
was complete.
And the tireless eyes
of the great bear had closed.
On this ground,
love would never come
more easily to me.

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