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by Linda Etheridge
The night slides
   into a satin slipper
hiding unfortunate barrels
   of old age with grace
in its darkness...
   Late evening meanders
throughout catacombs
   (willows wait under
amber glint of the moon)
   by satin slipper of night.
A lark sends messages
   into deep tentacles,
perceptions of New England
   countryside as
I think of my mother's pen
   filled with innuendo
and craft, nuances
   of character and poise
the soul of a dragon.

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