Raymond A. Foss Poems

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A single flute,
ancient, native
sounding in the room,
down by my feet,
echoing muted,
through the space
oozing into my consciousness
soothingly, for the hours
the length of the day
seeping into me
intoning the spirits
the haunting tones
of the wind, the wild,
the wilderness,
the peoples
of this place, long ago
stilling me, healing
the energy, the pain
subsiding

February 27, 2007 21:56

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