The quiet days
The momentous days
Impressions of one person and weather
Storms, gravel, waves
Dandelions celebrating their allotted existence
Next to a ragged telephone pole
Waving in the dappled light as we walked by, laughing
Such are the gently insistent memories
Unpredictable, mundane
Such more will come
I have fortune enough to be found by them
And talent enough to keep them
Even foolishly, but gloriously
For hope dies last, as the Russians say
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