Turangi

grass stalks shiver at the fence
the mown lawn stretches away
a skylark calls
the breeze shifts needles on the pine –

it’s one more
in a life of countless mornings

and at tokaanu
the dark mud pops, taunts
that the earth might still be juvenile

and once he felt a
warmth between the eyebrows

and heard a voice that said
keep going

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