Palinode

Was it the wind that swept through the clover, blown like memory, from my gardening dream? A breath, a wisp, a hold and release a floating leaf, confounded by my tears.

Ah, longing springs my heart, a quaver unseen
sent forth in spring’s hunger. This sweet singing past, between the vapors, I curl around, a dusky dusk. O do you know me? —H.D.

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