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Poetry Magnum Opus



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Ball of wool moon,my lover and I
knitting needles, sleeping, weaving
dreams. In the first dream I was the
cloud she the rain, second dream,
I was the tree, she the fruit-it
rained but apples would not grow.
In the third I was an axe-man,she
the wind, I cut down the tree, gales
hounded my window panes night
upon night.
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David W. Parsley

I like the brevity, Barry, the conflicted selves that move through this poem. The complexity inherent to fervent relationships.



- Dave

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