Lambent Patter

The passing of laughter in celebration
                was raining and trees...
Fallen clouds
                  in the creeks and streets.
What sort of year is this?...
That faces of flowered garlands
                                    from a grave
                  flash and blink in the early wave.
That youth grows old
                  and must forever
                  lose home.
With that holy light once shown
                  so obvious
                  so new, so lovely,
In these shifting sands of me and you,
                  this dancing death,
What is there to be won?
And what is left
                  after the setting
                  of our living daisies done?
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