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Four mounds in clover
line the sides of a dusty road,
a red vein in the purple skin.
The fragrance avalanches passersby,
a fog of bees hides the tops
and I walk beside you.
The cloud-shadows march on ahead
we turn a bend into the trees,
never to see this valley again.
Nor I, you.
For you are of the trees
and I among the reeds,
but the bees just tend their flowers
and the road’s there tomorrow.
Al Zeller
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