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| Script of the finite seasons |
On a wooded hill,
reading old poets,
old poets looking for answers
near the ends of their lives,
old enough now myself
to try to know
if the cold rain through bare crowns
holds ancient truths,
if curled leaves in the desiccated field
keep old secrets,
the chill and the finitude
of life being what is,
as I have known it to be,
my own heart, too,
an ancient text
without explanation.
