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“Gardens Souls digging and grieving Under spades so silver That outcast dawn. The earth becomes lighter Yet grows darker with each inch The shovel takes into the dirt. The white of the texture That once before touched our hands In innocence leaps into forgiveness. The grave is deep and uneven, Its lines are simply met with even words That haunt the living and haunt our worst. Purple shadows reckoning our streets, Leaving the darkness to sleep With a mantle of marble at least. The moon's line shows sorrow On hands that dig down far And reveal the things — that dawned on us before.” — Laura Chouette
Gardens
Souls digging and grieving
Under spades so silver
That outcast dawn.
The earth becomes lighter
Yet grows darker with each inch
The shovel takes into the dirt.
The white of the texture
That once before touched our hands
In innocence leaps into forgiveness.
The grave is deep and uneven,
Its lines are simply met with even words
That haunt the living and haunt our worst.
Purple shadows reckoning our streets,
Leaving the darkness to sleep
With a mantle of marble at least.
The moon's line shows sorrow
On hands that dig down far
And reveal the things
— that dawned on us before.