Fifty-Eight

Hear me read the poem:
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Fifty-eight has fields that now lie fallow,
In which exuberance is well interred.
Fierce desire roams the windrows still,
Tempered by a sense of the absurd,
Yet resonant with what such wishes hallow.

Even in the winter that will follow,
In harmonies remote though not unheard --
Grace that wordless lies beyond the will,
Happiness well steeped, if rarely stirred --
There is a wellspring just beside the willow.

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