June Mourning
by Tom Harmon
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It's on days like this
that I wrestle most
with your news
and my powerlessness:
days, when each blade of grass
every tree
the hills
the mountains
all of nature it seems
surrender earth's cares
to a cloudless sky
_on the breeze
and we sit by the lake
just you, me
and the tumor that won't heal
no matter how I hold you
no matter how I touch you.
At my strongest
I pray it rains - days should not
be so beautiful;
at my weakest
I wish neither of us
were ever here.
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