Down a Worn Path
Grown old, I think of her less often now,
But always when walking here at the edge
Of winter, fading light of first bright days.
She is that faint shimmering above a sun-
Warmed stone at the edge of the stream,
Staying and going into the cold night air.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2012-02-20 at 18:59
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