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Movement
There's inspiration in a leaf, the sun
the sky, a newborn baby's hungry cry,
the politics of men, the art of zen;
it's in his eyes, the robin tugging worms
that brings us spring, an empty backyard swing,
the price of gas, the passion of a soul
who's reaching out for dreams that never come
guilt free; a single rose, a mother's grief
for sons and daughters lost before their time,
your friends and mine, the coupled grace that dwells
where hearts know love, the cooing of a dove,
in winter's white-washed face, an eddy's spin,
the colors ending summer's shading green,
in haunting longings that deny a face
its smile; it's in the quest for inner peace,
loblolly Georgian pines that carry tunes
of singing frogs that brings your mind back home;
you'll find it in a bite of birthday cake,
your father's wake, a graduation's pomp
and circumstance, the solitary dance
of someone's loneliness and private tears,
the hell from raging fears; it's in the wind,
the moon and evening stars, and in the end,
it's essence is the breath of memory.
In life is where a poet finds his words.
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