Last night a book
leapt off the shelf
and fell open to a page
that I have not read in years.

Sometimes I take my eyes
off the mist
pocketed in the ridges
and valleys below me.

The morning song
of the birds gave
the crickets and frogs
the day off.

A breeze blows
off and on
stirring the fine hair
of my daughter.

The words I write
are meant to be
peeled off the pages
of these seasons.

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