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The Burn of Time
by Taylor Graham

This morning the sky is full of clouds
the color of ash sifting down cold:
snow never so clean after it’s fallen
already tinged and stained beyond white
as it hits the dogwood blossoms,

which, like mud, means spring: so say
the old-timers who nod their heads,
speaking of the slow

after-burn of summer, clouds
over the mountains opal, mother of pearl
as if they were filled with ash, a vision
of stone-cold fires in the stove.

As if spring weren’t the beginning
of everything that ends.






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