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I search and search
for a
red,
down,
quilted vest--
to find
deep,
burrowing pockets---
a zipper,
not snaps.
Red--
firewarmth.
Ecstatic journeys
by jeep.
Flame of scarlet midst
char black trees,
ash white snow.
Return
to junkyard parking lots
to coat racks lined
with discarded dreams and dungaree jackets,
old backstage passes and memories,
mismatched gloves and glories.
Sockfoot
I stretch, arch, reach, grasp
then curl up in my chair by the fire
warming hands and heart around
a mug of fresh coffee:
the siamese cat of me
still climbing
trees in the forest.
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