The roads will end,
old roads that bend
until we brake
and take a turn
to shake a tale
from all we make
of this travail.

My words will fail.
No words avail
me in the face
of grace unearned,
the space to tie
my measured lace,
my reasoned rhyme.

Your moods will climb,
but moods sublime
begin as fear
and here return.
Revere this trend;
the line is clear:
with this you mend.                            

August 29, 1999

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