Dear Marshfield
Dear Marshfield,
Your song is in the wind
sweeping over the woods,
marshes and fields.
The marshes this December
are green, and life stirs
under cloudy skies and sun,
but you still know your seasons.
You cut new trails in my dreams
during long nights
when the sun sets early.
Tonight a bar is empty,
and the bartender shoots pool
to pass the time.
Tonight I sleep in my motel room
for a spirited night.
Davenport
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