Singing

The old metal swing set stood

up to its ankles in falling fresh

snow, the surrounding night

masquerading as day. Three

swings swayed ever so slightly

side to side in unison, in

rhythm, in breeze like a robed

choir just beginning to open

its soul to each earth-bound flake,

swing low, sweet chariot

almost audible in the

stillness.

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Passing Life

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Tattoo