I hear your plaintive cry,
or is it mine I hear?
I think I see you
and feel your presence.
your silent shadow slips through evening times
when soft gentle breezes wane,
and you are lit by hazy moonlight
sifting through pine needles and misty clouds.
Pain and streams of teardrops come and fall.
A mighty longing rips sinew from my bones,
I am left a helpless mass.
Come lay your muzzle in my hands.
From MURMURINGS: A Collection, Don Davison
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