We pray to make it whole,
tip the world on edge and
follow the trail home, singing.
Our voices carry into the future,
our brief language
a migration of words
slow voice of mountains,
wondering voice of caribou, wind
blown seed, all the
lost languages wandering
through centuries,
drifting, every year
the grasses return, the birds
begin to sing,
the sky clears and
we can see forever.
Gary Lawless
Poet
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