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Saturday morning

brown stains on freshly-mowed grass
death comes mourning,
to others
the gift of light receding
earth-roots tapping
less the water

replicating patterns of beauty
in near-death experiences
we hold what is dear close to old visions
scattering prisms of hope
and hope
love will find a way.

Editing stage: 


Did you ever get any feedback on this poem?


I read this as comparing a drought to lack of love. I think it could be clarified a bit better though...............stan

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