It's a little like grappa or moonshine,
drink it in all at once and you'll black out.
Take a little and you'll remember
that the world and you are okay,
all lined up under a golden sunrise,
ancestors behind, children ahead,
your desire gibbous and real,
your pain just a piece of the pie.
It's like a summer field,
that time you accidentally did nothing,
and gold dragonflies, warm grasses,
and sweet wind surrounded you
and made you cry and laugh.
You couldn't package it, and later,
nobody listened anyway.
It is not such a rare bird,
although you look for it endlessly.
It is more like a finch,
drawn unusually close
to your plain invitation.
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