Jeanne B. Cushman

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Today, space between yesterday
and tomorrow, this nowness
may bloom, blossom, or blow away.
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Dense fog shrouds the ocean's beach
To make a private world for us.
We walk on sand at water's reach
And leave the public world to fuss.
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A gift of pieces has always been mine,
Errands to run, along brooks and through pines,
Tasks in fragments to take and refine,
Fruits to gather from deserts and vines.
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