But wait!
Why ruin a whole page
when all we know for sure
would fit on a scrap?

The air is heavy
with remorse for what they do.
The pond gropes its way to spring;
the words are half-melted.

Wind enters with a roar,
sweeping across the land
until even the oaks
think the storm was their idea.

Wings are for birds
and the very blest.
Most of us shuffle
restless and unsure

hoping
for a clear day
and maybe a glimpse
of forever.

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