I can report on how it feels
to barely miss the Giant's heel
to sit for hours in reverie
observing the clouds
observing me
to love the slipshod river run
under the melting summer sun
to float on words a kind of sea
to ransom stricken liberty
to dream that I will always be
at home with only poetry
to catch like a mirror the silver hour
to bow before no earthly power
to keep the fairy tales alive
for which so many saints have died.
to know that happy endings still
were ever only God's true will.
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