More Poems

SNOW IN SPRING

White blankets for yawning buds.

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The gong strikes eight…

The aftermath of emptiness rings

in weighted stillness upon my soul.

My soul?

What is my soul?

A mystical labyrinth? Stemming from where?

Leading to where?

The gong strikes eight…

Measuring time. Why?

Time for what?

To live in measured moments?
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OBITUARY

A flower died.
Cause of death:
Crushed by a closing door.

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That you may know me, that you may know me.

I give you keys and clues,

though seldom am I prepared to find and see

the source of what and why I am.

Moments come, like now, with the quiet of solitude,

when the call clamors and I must descend,

meet and yield to the Deep

that observes and understands.

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© Ronaye Hudyma
All Rights Reserved

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