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Flecks of Gold
by Michael Escoubas

Last night I went into myself
to find the reason
I must write. From my
vantage point at meadow's edge
there came a glow
from among the bushes
and grasses, voices as it were,
choirs singing their harmonies
blending their subtle variations.
The hillside, once green,
now sports a purple wrap,
like a priest in his vestments.
Somehow everything comes
together in a moment beyond
the speaking of it. When pen
comes to paper flecks of gold
fall like rain, as if written by
a higher hand guiding mine—
then I knew,
then I knew.


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