when i sing she doesn't care;
when i whistle she looks at me expectantly
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Saturday, September 18, 2010
July Mountain
We live in a constellation Of patches and of pitches, Not in a single world, In things said well in music, On the piano, and in speech,
As in a page of poetry -- Thinkers without final thoughts In an always incipient cosmos, The way, when we climb a mountain, Vermont throws itself together.
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I love your comments and I'm sorry if I don't always reply, but please do feel free to comment anyway. Love, MissW