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Shifted in the box like salt
riddled by small stones-
bone that would not burn.
When flung, what did float
spiraled like smoke on the lake,
summer rimed her shore roses.
On our father's white crossed
Arlington grave, a tidy pyramid
until a fugitive wind, then
what mote, in whose eye?
Praise
Sunday mornings
you be my hot
butter swirled, maple
syrup drizzled,
whipped cream doll-
upped topped
hand-scratch-made,
pancake
starbucked