David Freed

When I was little
three or four
I liked to blow the heads
off dandelions grown white
...

A flame dances over
its sustaining logs
Piercing the dark with light My mind dances over
its structural maze
...

To hear waves
Softly splash at the shore
Feel the sun
Warmly press on my skin
...

They liken you to an ancient wall
In the wash of the sea of time,
Which wears the mortar from your joints
To weaken you so you'll fall. They greatly err, mistaking you
...

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