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Elegy for Wind-Worn Hours

                                    Corinna McClanahan Schroeder


Yellow petaled cups wide as mouths,
     black moons of dirt. Brother
and Sister, I miss those wind-worn

hours. We never believed
     that if we swung high enough, we’d fly
above the swing set’s beams. No,

we hung our heads back, arched
     our necks until a sky of daffodils
threatened to rain celestial dust on our cheeks.

Below, clouds like stepping stones.
     How easily, then, the world
reversed. No need to try to sling

tether-free at the zenith of flight—upside
     down, we were kites. We scanned
each line of the stamened sky.


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