Where the woods and ploughlands
of tradition and modernity
run into the never-ending
deserts of eternity,
there I have my daily task
while time smoothly passes,
spooning the eternal sands
into hour glass.
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I cannot sing, dance or act; what else would I be but a talk show host.
by Kathryn Stripling ByerAll morning we’d climbed until
we reached a primitive graveyard
whose stones bore no names we could read.
The season too early for wildflowers,
we searched for other unfoldings,
cumulous climbing the ...