Old Poems, Posted (1)

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There is a gate to let us through
to the other side.
It is difficult to find,
      but where flames
      of white-gold morning glory
      bloom and flicker,
      where frost lingers
      and fingers of ivy
      climb a rotting fence
there is a gate.
      It is only an opening
      but to go through once
      — we might find
      another side. We might
      find the greener grass.
I imagine a better person
on the other side.

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