the slidder dalles.

when will we be able to tell all we know freely, openly?
some winds never die. the rustle of skeletal grasses
quivering in their dormancy reveals that winter, too,
is a vivid season. yet some don't see it so. to glaze
over the top in a fretful haste is to misname
the world. and yourself. there are lives pressed
into the grain of patience that deep eyes and
inaudible breaths draw out. a sharp eye withers not.
and echoes resound in every crack of silence.


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