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Poetry

’PREFERRING THESE BRIEF, TEMPERATE WINTER SESSIONS . . . ’

 

Preferring these brief, temperate winter sessions

Beyond the dawn to any in the seasons,

But realizing they will leave impressions,

Not memories, for temperamental reasons,

I linger on my way, while wind drives brown,

Long, desiccated maple leaves across

A south where distant traffic whispers drown

Behind hale houses, shaded with Spanish moss.

 

My adult mind from childhood retains

No images of these, but merely hearkens

To fledgling feelings, like the yellow stains

On handkerchiefs as ichor dries and darkens.

Reaching into my pocket, I retrieve

The ones he left to soothe me, and believe.

 

– This poem appears in the April 17 print edition of National Review.

 

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