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View from My Window

Early morning mountains
are blue smudges
in the margins
of the skyline
of a city waking.

I am still
inside my skin–
quiet and content
as the steam
rising from my cup.

Flowers I planted
late in summer
when I first arrived,
grow on the balcony
in November–
yellow and orange conversations
with a world
that answers me
in the tone of my own voice.

I am warm
with the promises
of this new winter.

All that I am;
all the miles
I have journeyed,
are reflected
in the glass canvas before me.

I hum
like a taut bow
ready to launch arrows
that will fly true.

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