Sooner Than Later
Sadie Harris

It is a quiet place.
Wind whistles
through the cracks
that cannot always
be seen to the naked eye.

You can lose your place,
like a book where the pages
are blown or closed without
a mark to keep you.

Out across the fields
beyond the red clay sift,
mesquite lines a destination,
if you care to follow.

I think I shall sleep in
that first day,

before I realize,
I am home, again.

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