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2003-07-10 - 3:20 p.m.

4:30am, Henniker. Thinking of My Father.

Itís when dawnís first mists begin to rise,
and roman numerals are drawn in streetlights,
thick, waving, white,
on the black waters of the Contoocook River,
that I find myself following bent weeds
to the riverbank, where mud grapples my sneakers.
Iíve come to gather stones,
thinking of my dad reading from the pulpit
a time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together.

When will I grow up? Iíve only grown older.
It is time to cast away. Each flat, smooth stone
leaves my hand and is swallowed,
first by the darkness, then by the river.
I listen as each one issues
triumphant, unseen splashes.



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