when the wind
has turned the trees
to bones
and the leaves
to remnants of last week's
ticker tape parade
when the fire has
gone out of everywhere
but your eyes
and even the little flame
that usually appears
at the tip of your Bic pen
when you sit to write
is snuffed out by
the inky darkness.
then, will you turn to me?
pages in a series,
waiting to be either
kindling and smoke
or chapter and verse.
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