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Through the Turnstile

In the early morns
of this late November,
still draped
in the pure dark remembrance
and imagination
of the Earth shadow
for hours yet,

my bond with the secret flow
of the Wild
through the turnstile
of Gunwald the Cat;
a wild, ferocious
and immensely patient hunter
a cuddly, furry love
with that clear, infinite gaze
of mystery
on my chest
as I read Gary Snyder's A Place in Space
in the warmth
of The Ship of Dreams
in the bedroom upstairs
in the house
on the moraine hill

He keeps my awareness in shape;
my hearing inward as well as outward,
and I'm mindful
of the little beetles
on my path,
and the scarce bird song
in the spacious early winter
of the endless forests
of the northern coniferous belt

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Publicerad 2021-11-14 09:31

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