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by Mary Brunini McArdle

It’s time for me to find my bed.
I seek it not of my own will,
Nor speak for its location.

I’d like to see young robins fledge,
To settle near a fox’s den,
Or feel a fawn’s feet thrashing.

Is this too much for me to want?
To watch the start of other life,
And hear the Season’s voices?

Diurnal winds lift me aloft;
Then, as a vessel clears the straits
In passage to its moorings,

The warm Spring navigates my way,
And I, quiescent, send my roots
Into the dark soil’s lodging.

Copyright © 2007 by Mary Brunini McArdle

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