may the calendar
that we carry
in our hardened heart
off the wall
and may the sight of the second redemption
come not when the gates open
or the last confession slips through
our lips, trembling and ashamed.
let harvest abound in the exile without end
for growing seasons do not belong to human beings
they belong to the sun
and the moon
and the wind
all that willful life
stubborn and unrehearsed.
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