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Nov 302015
 

by Anne Whitehouse

 

In a bowl between mountains

the pond mirrored the sky:

reflections of clouds

and the blue dome of space

 

on the wrinkled fabric

of the water’s surface,

where the wind raised whitecaps,

and the sun sparkled like sequins.

 

Down a road nearly 200 years old

meandering through a forest,

I saw a moose munching apples

in an abandoned orchard.

 

Witness to secret silences,

a pilgrim to forgotten places,

I listened carefully to what

was not heard elsewhere.