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POEM: Bound


Tramping through a snowy wood
a few feet behind her,
he remembers all the times
they’ve been here before.
Not these particular woods,
but alone together on a walk,
talking about books or movies
or music, pointedly not talking about
the other people who might wonder
where they are, and with whom.
Their boots crunch in a broken rhythm.
Occasionally a branch whips back;
she looks to make sure he’s OK.
Rust said: Time is a flat circle.
She’s never seen that show.
But she’d get it. And she knows
where they are on that particular arc.
Cars go by through the trees ahead.
The real world is always close at hand,
however muffled by the snow.

/ / /

18 November 2022
State College PA

Published in My poems Poetry


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