Sundays Along Wissahickon Creek

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Useless to think you can capture it,

how the sun spins the trees, their naked

truth and steadfast hope, into pillars

of breathable light,

how the vaulted sky commands

the arch of your neck, thirst

in your eyes, waltz

of forgotten wild dreams

and how the creek surges, then sighs

the geese arrow across the cool grass,

the day stretches, long

and slow, cracked door

in a languid heart

begging the feet

to go on.

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