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Guest
May 30, 2011
Magic arrives upon the moment
It is not asked
It does not impose
But lifts a delicate step toward
Places to call home
A circle of shrubs,
Buds verging on bloom
The sole moon strung on stars and clear light
A watch glass of clear dew
The morning call
A silent prayer
Beckons it forth
It emerges,
Not a lion, but a dove
Sweetly croons
To weave a spell for one.
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