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That day

That day was the end of

the other days, past and hence.

The sun was warm on the face,

the trees at the trailhead, myriad green;

un-numbered shades.

The words of a saint on a

crumpled piece of paper

worn from reading again and again

folding, unfolding, stuffed in a pocket;

retrieved and read many, many times.

Descending into the silent coolness

of the woods, the stream seems

to mummer the words of the saint.

the air is his breath,

the surf on the beach,

at the end of the trail,

the beating of his heart.

She whose hand I held

to steady her on the trail,

the others we passed,

would not notice, I had

completely disappeared

never to be seen again.

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