The missing book,
the weeping hour
thorned into the hands
that find it- a page,
the sound of sighing,
the color of a stone
with shriveled skin
of human kindness,
tender, somber words
that speak of home
and how we might,
at last, reside there.
Here, the shape of life
becomes a vessel where
all things secret loosen,
rise and spill; transforms
shadows in the darkness
into a single, precious prayer.
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