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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 greet it fondly
for I have been there.

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

September through November
is my enchantment, Early on
the flowers still in bloom,
by season’s end snowflakes are falling.

Splendid, the sense of continuity,
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 promise
of my dreams?

 Look past these words and imagine
beyond the occluded vision
of the killing fields,
past the generals’ appalling missions.

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

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

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