Crane Seasons

May our togethers pass into aparts
Without experiment, the natural rhythm
Chronicles advance our sociability
Rhyming to the sound of the next birds
Whose flights provide smaller fontwords;

Graveyards of years are worn inside
We dance our vestibule tears
Folding our hands underneath wings
Puppeteers play organic strings;

Dissect the pattern of the road
Where latitude plans stand-in for codes:
Language of force and colorful shifts
Asks not a nest for gathering rifts;

Bared on the beak with toothiness red
Arid the day that looks like our bed
Leaping and looking for going along
Fantasy playing the mythical song;

Were but anthropocentric wise
Ducking crowds under the skies
Lost glories cannot sing to call
Wishing solo, loving all.

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