For weeks the world had slipped by quietly
a humid place, warm breezes gently blew
the smell of coffee and the taste of tea
(this sanctuary had no trace of you.)
Sounds, like pages turning in a book
or one lone cricket humming in the night
had lent the place the proper sort of look
(and gave me space to think, and sing, and write.)
Now a dog approaches at the gate
there’s wire, loose and barbed around the weeds
He wags his tail; I plead with him to wait
If he runs to me now, I know he’ll bleed.
But cautiously, I tilt and lowly bow:
I do not want to scare the dog off now.
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