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Tuesday, December 11, 2012

To My Dear Friend, George

It's easier to admit to
a higher power, when you're higher
than the clouds. Something does it,

easily throwing a bulls eye of light
against their white caps below. My eyes
don't dart to it, they settle softly

into its faded blue center. Who
questions it, what you can't
know? I knew the snow of his hair

that's now ash. I knew it, but I can't
know the why, or the how of its
sudden change. Or the when I'll follow.
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