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by Ed Bennett

The summer breeze replaced
by the stark leafless trees,
I see the bench
where I played the Cavalier
dropping to one knee
to proclaim my love

and laugh with you
at the comedy of
my sincerity,
your kiss so light,
floating from my lips
to the summer sky,
seeming eternity.

Yet seasons change,
years erode at
the crossroads of
love and pragmatism
where our choices
cleave all unity
until the distance
blinds our perspective.

Now is the winter
of our discontent,
as the Poet prophesied
to an insouciant king
who is to us
as to the ghost
of our love
alone on this bench.

by Ed Bennett

Morning, evening –
to the barn for milking,

brief winter days
with little more
than chores to
punctuate the hours

until spring
when the sap
will navigate
to the nascent bud

to begin again,
              and yet again

through the silence
of the snow

like the aged course
of a stone gray brook.

by Ed Bennett

We call them "silly",
these noisome fowl
gamboling in the snow
and mud of a county road.

We find ourselves inside
a chrysalis of blankets,
the fire lit, involved
in a Manichaean dance
with the chill.

The days pass
around our refuge,
our island lacking
the touch
of our surroundings.

These geese,
the silly ones,
cold from beak to
wide webbed feet,
embrace each day

flapping their wings
for little more than
the sweep of air
through their feathers.

They are silly,
so we say,
but they live!


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