Presence
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Who clings to something anchored in each memory,
Shines brightly in each look of mirrored eyes.
Holds gifts that last, from hands held fast
To every place, where every face, in final resting lies.
Whose greater touch to blood of red and blue
Will rush in wild courses endless through
All that we are meant to be, brushed
With blushing, petaled skin, for all to see.
Drink time in gulps, or stripped
From living pages ripped, then stare down smiling;
For all that’s held, and all that’s letting go.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2020
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