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Dec 2020
muddied shoes neatly paired by the fire,
the leather seat crinkles under my weight
as I inch closer, full mug in hand, the
ceramic feverish to the touch

the flames lick and recede, past faces beseeching me to stay,
swallowing me into the warm past, familiar, my skin,
my bones inseparable, still part of the many departed,
a night’s respite before daylight and the need to move on,

the hearth, broad and crackling, it pulls,
not yet I think, as I struggle with my pack,
not yet, as the morning will be cold but bright,
the path branch-filled yet passable, a journey still,

not yet I think
Philip Lawrence
Written by
Philip Lawrence  New York
(New York)   
171
   vb
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