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by Michael Escoubas

The red ripeness of round leaves is thick
With the spices of red summer
—World Without Peculiarity, by Wallace Stevens

She comes here
when the wind is low
when light suspends time
when oars become fingers of light
in their effortless plungings.

In a moment of meditation
the gazebo fills with music,
she hears her husband's
rich baritone voice, now still,
at rest in the sweetness of earth.

She stands in this day's
emerging light. Him to whom
she belonged, moves toward the light,
becomes the light. The two blend as one
in this moment, as if he were here.


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