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Boot Scrapes
The wax drips slowly down the hardening ripple
Hours pass by as a second, I hear:
. crickets
birds
the wind
water drips
fingers tapping against the chair
The shadows have closed into night
My candle has long ago burned to ash
I hear silence on the porch
Your boot scrapes are missing
Signaling the end of my day
No need for roast and carrots cooking
Your boot scrapes won't come home anymore...
Copyright ©
Doris Culverhouse
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