Poetry of the Dawn

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I once imagined that Death would find me
sprawled on the floor surrounded by my books
with a pen in my hand and half a poem
scribbled on my arm.

But then I met you and Death changed plans;
not on the floor so much as in our bed
with my arms around you and pictures
of our grandkids on the walls.

For your voice pierces the cloudy chaos
and your dancing green eyes remind
me of redemptive cups of coffee
and the poetry of the dawn.

And now I see our silhouettes standing before us
framed in tentative rose shadows
cast by a rising sun drawing toward us
as yellow wamth overwhelms the cold.

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