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If I write only what I know
I’ll save my ink for autumn,
No longer am I summer’s child,

Spring,  I welcome it,
but only as a spectator,
I watch it and smile fondly
for I have been there.

Winter is a concept
I’m not yet ready
to embrace.

September through November
is my intimacy, Early on
the flowers still in bloom,
and at the end, snowflakes are falling.

Bless these things
 that call my pen to action,
but what about this hunger
to make peace more
than mere abstraction?

Is it poverty of language
or fault of culture that leaves me
 searching for the perfect elocution
of my dreams?

 Look past these words and imagine
beyond the fields of blood,
past all occluded vision
past the generals’ perverted missions

and see the peace
that can exist, that must exist,
first in the minds of poets
then flowing from their pens.

Imagine the constancy of water
changing rock  and celebrate quietly
these small and deathless victories
that lead to peace.

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