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Pages of Ephesians Time has taken you; left me stumbling in the objects of your experience. Teaching how absence leads back to the root of my yearling, callow home. I walk up this mossy lane jumping this crooked fence I made, so I could weave my hands through. Looking high above a cherry roof, I would rest helping to keep the sky aloof. Passing pale pink light bathing crayoned petals inside a flower box; oil lamps scribble past stained glass ignite a Victorian air, that has been capsuled inside for years. The door I open stirs a familiar image; the gray of Grandmother’s hair drawing lines in the Georgian pine where the creche of Christmas sleeps still intact. Antiques lying just as I remember, nearly-abandoned; sitting outside half-packed boxes at random: wax-sealed jars of homespun frosting, gingered candy preserves. A toy guitar warped permanently Out of octave, I find my hands grip the hourglass shape. Polishing the platinum strings to finger an unfinished hymn I once penned, now fading under the pages of Ephesians, warmly vibrates in tune. Lifting the sublime second heavenward, without body, messenger sends my soul to you. |
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