her horses are grazing in the sparkle of routine routines
as if there were no tomorrow no torque in the engine of time just a fine
sprinkle of piano and harmonium tinkling on the still warm air
that could easily slip forward or backward but stalls in neutral eternity
leaves fall from the branches but never hit the ground
her autumnal thighs mount another winter
but her eyes see starlight cascading into the snow
falling upwards
the blue snow
and the brown fields
that continue to riot
in fields of gold
for terri clark
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