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Nov 04, 2008
Janeal Turnbull Ravndal
On lines near maple’s blaze I pin our flowered sheets.
Spilled gold speaks, crisp, under my feet.
Above: bare branches, birdsong, blue.
Today in your streets our blasts of
drown out all calls: to arms, to prayer.
And I am so ashamed. Brave Sister,
Are you still standing, hanging out white linen, black robe,
putting on the line what is clean, lifting it
into whatever sun shines there today?