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Next Time | Reflection Poetry

An empty bench watches the sunset.

Wood and iron: worn and ornate.

Pink light falls on it brownly.

Another bench. It's beneath my desperation.

The leaves at my feet rustle. I look up.

It's like a cathedral. The redwoods sky over winter's vicissitude.

Emerald now. The high green captures the crow's dim calls.

Soft, soaking bark. A winding trail.

A gentle incline, but not high enough.

The air smells like wet blankets. A vein of riversound catches my attention.

I can say that I stood here, that I looked up, that I looked down at my feet.

But I did not sit. Perhaps I should've.

Perhaps I will next time.


Howland Hill, near Crescent City, California.

Photo by yours truly.


Poem from For It All.


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