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Morning coffee shop stop
blends the sleepy and the bustle
with a ghost wing and a nudge,
smudging mist to something keen.

Under the latte lion’s roar
he’s singing Sweet Baby James
but I clearly hear you
in all the times you sang the same.

This one knew you deeply
in the roots of your bones,
when you held yourself lonely
on a summerless range.

And it speaks of those roads
that I know were your roads
when you worshiped the Berkshires
from Stockbridge’s impounded bowl.

I want to sit on a porch
with that frosting of snow,
who knew you in your worn coat
for more winters than I.

From down in your dreams,
will you reach towards thin days
to brush a cowboy’s daughter
and soothe what remains?


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