Roads Roamed.
R
Rebecca Navarre
0
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Windmill, glistening in the suns
cold. Fields are froze. The porch swing
in the yard, is covered with snow. The barn,
looks so vacant and old. The sound of a calf,
cries out low. Sit here, looking down the
driveways, winding road. Once again, the
heart shows. But life's already been sewn.
Even though, there's a deep
knowing.
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