Harvesting
deer eyes scan,
not quite unafraid.
Cloud overhead, likes lingering,
harvesting the hills that way.
If asked, wouldn't say.
Falling is just like everything
all dancing me, heaven below
is what I touch.
Cloud might smile,
look like white.
Waiting for you to remember
again again, the shape of his skin
your own.
The cloud you've respired
a thousand times.
He never forgets, and
never says.
But listen.
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